The Image

As I gaze into this mirror, I see so much that looking starts to hurt
But I endure all the same
The emotional scars hidden within the gray speck in my eyes
So much that if you’re genuinely concerned you might see
Don’t they say the eyes are the windows to the soul?

Descending, I continue my survey
The current sight brings the taste of bile to my mouth
Blisters from the time when my uncle used me as ashtray
Never have I encountered a better Diablo
I suspected the space for his heart was long carved out
Left to house the gallons of liquor he consumed
Or even left hollow, who knows?
Well that seems most possible for feelings if he ever had any, were long gone

Now I ascend bypassing the agony and staring at my gray blinders
This time I peer inward as their intensity pulls me in
Behold, shattered dreams from a time when I bothered to sleep
Self-esteem that is so dangerously low
A result of my belief that I’m useless. No use sugarcoating that

I used to wonder why The Creator left me with breath
Then again, I started to disbelieve in his existence
I’m broken, not worthy to be called a man even though I look like one
Not just any, a dashing one
But the soul is not a copy of the body nor does its state emulate that of the flesh
If only! Sometimes I wish it were so for I’d be a perfect man
Or is that just another one of my illusions?

My very being reeks of failure
I have let the many nicknames from my childhood dominate my future
My uncle’s words, alcohol induced as they may have been, haunt me!
With so much frequency that I once considered taking to the bottle
But that’d be me honoring the only sorry excuse for a relative I ever had
No way!

Didn’t someone once say “success is the best revenge”?
Oh well, I think its time I put this mirror down
Stop looking and start fixing.

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