You do not know me.
Not like the others do.
Hate and loathing know me.
They know me through and true.
I am not what I appear to be,
the light that shines is but a glow,
of the torn apart remains,
of the real me you cannot know.
If only guilt, how lovely that would be!
But among myself I am most despised.
For no greater hate can man know,
than for oneself a careful hate devised.
No crime have I committed,
yet myself won't let me be!
So sinful is my grief alone,
and the disdain I have for me.
Self-loathing, I deserve it,
but I do not answer why,
For depression is her own judge
and alone in fault I lie.
For there is no greater condemnation
than that which is your own.
Which forces you, unwillingly,
To blame yourself alone.
For who you cannot be.
- By C F Tinney, Created on April 14 2008 -
