It is done
So thoroughly
Through and through
That I am
For the most part
Undone.
Sundered
I can not
Pull it together
I will not try to assemble
Myself
The way I was
Not that I would ever
End
Myself
But right now
I wish for death.
Maybe the next is better
Surely
Unsure
The luck I have never had
Is run out of a crack
In my character
A congenital hole
In the back of my head
I periodically
Pick the protective
Scab
It only hurts when I breath
Just another compulsive habit
I should be alone
For their sake
I am repulsively
Self-pitiful
Why
Am I?

Austerberto R. Palis, Jr.
April 25, 2008; 14:20pm

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