The Judge


My life is thus:
The judge sits at his bench,
Demeaning and destructive;
His verdict offers no justice,
His sentence serves no rehabilitation.
Before him, I would be a prisoner
Shackled in solitary evermore;
Any attempt at release
Would be mocked and chided
Because, in his words,
I am worthless,
No longer any good to society.
I certain am not deserving
Of an angel’s touch or affections,
And to try would be wasted effort.
There is no sense in prevailing,
For these years alone have taught me nothing
But how to wallow and loathe myself.
His accusations sting caustic,
Like a shard of ice through my heart,
And though he has no right,
No position to castigate me,
I listen to him all the same,
Knowing even as I do what I am losing,
What I am passing up,
What I have let slip out of my life.
This judge that sits before me
Is invisible to the world,
Deaf to their ears,
But to me he is more real than anyone,
And his voice is the loudest,
Drowning out any pleas,
Any compliments,
And every opportunity.


So This is What Death Feels Like

Shadow trapped

I watch you from the shadows:
A mouth that never speaks,
Eyes that never move,
Because I feel I am bound to you,
To protect, to console.

So disillusioned am I
To feign that I’ve such an honor,
For despite prescience
And a damnable wisdom,
You are not mine to command.

Perform on the stage
Of your corporeal desires,
Stringed like a puppet,
Pulled by carnal instinct
And debased solitude.

I have become the shadow
That watches and waits,
That does nothing—
Cannot act—
Bound by abhorrent inhibition.

I watch, but never act,
And through ineptitude
I have become something less than human;
A specter, bound to a cursed fate,
And certainly not yours to protect.



You’re not worth my time,
With your insecurities, profligacy, and secrecy;
Not worth the hours I could waste
Conjuring all possibilities in which I could make you smile.

You’re not worth the breaths I could take,
Striving to subsist just to keep you happy—
The doses of oxygen you would never cherish,
The dedication you would never fathom.

You’re not worth these words I write you
Or the obsession I will pore over this piece
To ensure its immaculacy—
A measure you can never parallel.

You’re not worth anything, for you see in me my flaws,
My impotence, my impuissance, my failures, my deprivations;
Measured against your muse, I’m a portrait of imperfection.
But a secret I will impart to you, my dear:
No one in this world is perfect,
And that includes you.