Tilted Poetry

Where do I begin
Again
Does the carpet ride of despair ever end
The search of fate picks me apart
My bones have been cleaned
The bastard demon full from my offerings
I have hung my hopes from the noose
Yet I struggle to grasp the branch

A hatred of feeling broken
I hate to feel out of control
I feel those needles daily
The pain is understood
I continue to grin and bear it
I hate to feel

Covered in the security of depth
It is easy to bury the truth
Why be exposed to what is real, what is cold
Cold cripples and paralyzes
Yet the only warm blanket
Is overwhelming self-loathing
Resurrect me from the grave
The warmth is what I desire
It seems so easy to say
But the boulder I can not move

My eternal being is projecting
Through my own selfish eyes I see it
It is thirsty for strength, for love, for self
But I display something far more distorted

I pay for past lives
But when is the debt square
Is my soul destined for purgatory
I know the answer
I am already there

Poet: Tilted