Serena Malcolm

Cesspool.

Burdened mule.

In this hole I am not whole,
Stagnant in my body
and in my soul,
Rutted in my thoughts and in my deeds,
And all of my needs remain unsung.

Unappraised.

I’m played;
A guitar that they can strum,
My heart is just a bullet in their gun,
Waiting for their will to be done,
And for my life to be undone,
A slave waiting for the hammer to be swung,
And overrun with the pictures of my death
I hold my breath
and I then plead
But they’re deaf to all my pleas,
Blind to me down here on my knees,
Aching just to please,
Discarded like a tissue used to catch a sneeze.

Like I’m not even worthy of their phlegm.

Like I am their phlegm.

And look at them;
Existing happily
Sated by pure apathy
and fatted with contempt,
They are content
to watch me sin and then repent,
And sin and then repent.

And repent.

And repent.

Unrelenting until I’m spent.
Until it’s too late,
Until I’m decaying in their hate
and I stagnate.

Bitter fool.

Cesspool.