Sickness Poem

I wrote this poem earlier last year. It was only six months ago, and yet it feels like an age since. I know I've grown some since I wrote this, and felt such a way. But recently times have been laying heavy blows, and I've felt pangs of a previous stigma. I'd like to say I've improved, but I feel like I've lost ground in My War. Either way, it helps me feel better just to post this here. Kind of detoxifying my soul by posting all my garbage out here.

Sickness reigns inside once more,

the Demon malice conquers more,

hatred anger betrayal belittlement,

begin to settle upon life's minute filament.

My dreams and aspirations lay,

brutalized in most every way,

my manor twisted,

my demeanor reversed,

the man in the mirror becomes sickly perverse.

A soul sits, in the lonely rain,

watching the body spoil itself vain,

attention begets this heartless wretch,

as it draws closer its recent catch.

Ah! The stench of boastfulness is putrid most,

portraying upon it's scared precious host,

a decadent sense of conceit.

Oh My God, it happens again,

this wretch slays another beautiful friend.

Many who dare near, see lost to fear, a man once seen.

Honor seems lost, upon the hindered man,

whom felt the battle lost, before it began.

Once pristine, blessed with innocence.

Yet no more, a blood debt lost,

to his violent war.

Daily in anguish he twists contorted,

on his journey unsupported,

fighting the Demon forbidden pleasures,

counts fall blackly against his ledger.

His soul there perched,

parched for love,

is very much the broken dove,

jealously anger rage, berate,

beginning to brake his final gate.

Sorrow floods his heart stripped bare,

naked shown his every care,

a guttural cry sounds out in his soul,

his body though weak shows little at all.

Left with less that he began,

shows himself the mortal man,

a fractured boy of but seventeen,

lost this gift, no longer gleams.

Contemplating a hate filled past,

will this man leave to rest, what hate will last?

Will he become more than before?

Will he decide to shine evermore?

But what little choice does each man possess?

That he should attempt to become his best.