My facial stature I dare not resist to criticize

My moment of vanity is not and has never been in the realm of the prosperous land that is existence

And many a time I am obliged to result in self mutilation

That, be it not of pride but of self unimportance, turns me contempt

Though my heart, be it existing with natural strength for whoever a fool to challenge it, is prepared for heinous treachery

It, however, is not for my self corruption

For what is more a fool than one who admits too late to weakness

And one who takes uncritical notice of such a dysfunction

In such distraught times, my mind turns to a haze as well a lost identity

In its all complexity there is no curse more worse than anonymity

Reformation, consisting of challenges that only the most powerful of minds can overcome, is what I am prepared for

Yet I withdraw from the hammer of reconstruction and fall victim to my self deprivation of true joy and pleasure

I contemplate and savor the sweet thoughts that, being not stale but always anew, celestially revolve around the one idea of freedom from oneself

But dented they are with the craters of, strangely, seductive decadence

Which does nothing but, for such dreams, causes insufferable, stagnant precedence

An open searing flame my spirit, which at times may receive a fanning, may be

But only failure of rightness is enough for it to diminish into the dark abyss of the sea

Every rose, being the most beautiful species of flowers, withers and dies

But one’s thoughts can increase the ticking of the universal clock; giving birth to a heavenly time

I do not foresee my future pain but only deeply wish for a halt of repetition

But I pray that be it not of an enlightened capsule nor of a frightening congregation

Precipitance of others for me to become well only gash nails of anguish into my already flickering spirit

Echoes then cry out of my heart; no idea do I have to impair it

I am amongst you all

There is no place that holds within its acquaintance with me an idea of what I seek

And even though there is no cause that I can recall

The not at all tender veil discloses my face head to cheek

Blinded I then am by the future shroud of my undying torment

For what is more of a sinful death

than that of a death in which would cause a most ungodly descent

Divided I am with others my age

Rare efforts on my part hold true, in the end, to be pointless

Fellow peer’s liking of me seems to always die out within hours

Even though I do somewhat continue my act of hope however; be it relentless

I ask you am I not a human; being flawed yet gallant in secrecy I do admit guilt

But who are they not to reject me; I am but a being of cloaked secrets that in which I am overwhelmed

For with such carriage there is no areas of friendship that is immense

And atrocities one’s self takes actions on makes the amount of sorrow grow dense

I am what I am, and I consist of a persona that at times would drive madness into the mind

That in which, being of harsh and cruel thoughts, by certain events, can uncloak and unwind

But I am also an acquaintance of the most majestic of specific knowledge and maturity

Which, if anything, can, with aftermath, take away your purity

What can save me from this empty void, that is my soul, I have no thought

But only a rebirth of love that is more than what seems to be and is recurrently sought

There is another of my same outer stature that I grow more and more fond of

But societies own weakness, that is in fact their own ignorance, brings conflict with my ability to fall in love

These feelings and more have distraughtly troubled me right from the very start

And for this and more I implore on thee to recognize the yearn for the renaissance of my heart