My Hurt


Under the shelter of my own torture,
I can feel the rain fall from my eyes,
only to be mixed with the tears from the sky,
that baritone voice leads me through all my life of regret,
wishing I could start over again,
and find a way back to the first of my mistakes,
to turn back the clock and remember it all,
before the knife in my back and the needle in my arm,
before being six feet deep was better
than being two steps back,
before the empty promise made by two-faced people,
with forked tongues, and the ideals of bands and bells,
now I sit between yesterday and tomorrow,
with the ever present today looming over my head,
and everyone, who was and wasn't, the replaced and the replacements,
all of them will depart from me, and leave me behind,
and even as my veins are filled with the killing pain of
self-loathing, I know that I too will disappear from them,
with the sound of the lonesome whistle of a
never-ending train of thought,
one that brings me to the same sense of hurt.

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