Your Wicked Self.

What are you, but a poison,
Infecting everyone,
Thinking that who you are
A sickly sweet victory,
When you’re nothing,
But garbage on the side of the road.

Captivated, you think we were,
By your dance in the graveyard,
Breaking your demons in a smokeless coffin.
Huddled in a corner,
With your brain in an itch,
And no way to scratch it.


Keene is the eye,
To see what you have,
As it stares back at you,
Through the glass on the wall,
Shattered by pain.

Rejoice comes today,
When we see you are clean,
Fresh from the doors of your hellish realm.
When really, a façade is your game,
And the doors, the demons, are still locked inside.

The End

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