Truer words are oft thought, not spoken

I will not muse myself on a portrait,

A false face to wear like a shadowed mask,

I forfeit myself on my reflection,

That one I find so oft inside my flask,

I shalt not be one with mine own portrait,

That hated face I wish would burn in hell,

I find myself wishing to lay dormant,

I’m running from the self I know so well,

A portrait’s lies are painted easily,

A false face lies just beyond detection,

I do hate that face almost needlessly,

But as I stare into my reflection,

I must admit that this face That I know I do hate,

This face I hate I know I do wear quite well.

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A contemplation of how one might drown their sorrows in alcohol when they hate themselves more than anything.