Monologue on Self Hate

She’s never done anything right, and if she even did, it would be done for the benefit of her selfishness. She was good at that, messing things up in her mind. Nothing more, nothing less. It made her paranoid. She ruins everything. She tries hard to do things the right way but something always gets in the way. Maybe its her herself, or maybe her short temper or her undying impatience.  Recognition is something far away from her reach. And does desire this? Maybe not. Maybe she does, but then no one bothers to give it to her. She doesn’t deserve it anyway. And she feels stupid for trying in the first place. Nothing is right here anymore; and she doubts anything else will be still.

Foolish girl, you’ve never done anything right, and maybe you never will. Stupid.

Méprise

This writer might as well wilt away
for he cannot see anymore the good in himself.
The people surrounding him seem to want to tell him this straight,
but they cannot.
And so, they take pleasure in tormenting
the unknown identity of this writer.

But this I tell you, they will never know the pains he has gone through.
No one will ever fathom the pains of experiencing the fires of hell that he himself has gone through, back and forth.

And so a dream catcher hands in void of its real purpose.
The fake blood has been washed away and the red eyes are to be calmed down.
But the frail string of love has been severed once again.
The writer believes there is no more hope in the recovery of their bond.
Penance may be the solution they are seeking, but it is a treasure buried deep out there, to where no one plans to venture on.

Sans shall recognize the persona of the writer.
The roses have wilted again to black and brown.

Sans will be aware of this minuscule chronicle between two siblings;
for the writer asks for forgiveness to his mother for he is not worthy of her charity and kindness.
Love the other better, he says, for he has lost more than a brotherhood of blood, it is his treasured necklace from his lover.

And so, this writer’s rage shall be compared to a busy banker’s loss of a single coin, despite having so many else.
Once again the writer asks forgiveness from his mother, and he reasons,

‘for he deserves a brother better than a horrendous monster like I.’

Infuriated

do you know how betrayal tastes like?
it’s like making the world’s sweetest cake,
only you won’t be able to enjoy it with people.
you watch them eat all your hardwork away,
while you just watch them eat each and every crumble.

Yes, that’s how you made me feel
it made me wonder if you are even real
or maybe just a fair weather friend
that goes away when it’s a dead end
My entiriety I have poured unto you
and what do you do?
A painful stab on the heart
straight on to me like a dart.
How much pleasure do you feel now,
having caused me all this sorrow?
You must be delirious already,
then good for you, but betterget ready
because nothing is sweeter than revenge,
and I bet you a whole lot things are going to change.

© MBBC 2012