I could have been a tragedy

I could have been a tragedy.

It was damn near a social fatality,

The way my fall from the trapeze,

Got the whole community laughing at me.

They picked up their phones to take a freeze,

Frame of my humiliation.

I was nothing but a disposable part of society meant for ablation.


I could have been a tragedy,

The way after my fall I became unattractive financially.

I couldn’t even get two cents,

But I got plenty of laughter,

Free of charge but always at my expense


I could have been a tragedy.

Always treated underhandedly for my mental abnormity.

No one told me being an oddball makes others act so fatality.

None the less, I got up after my fall.

I lost to the count and missed the call,

But I still got back up with minimum gall.

Dissociative Identity Disorder P.2

Sometimes, I mess up and look at life at a different angle;

I am not sure If I am god’s child or Satan’s legion.

Prayed for since age four yet still baneful,

To the core.

I’m a saint and a whore,

Mixed up into one.

I been the step and prodigal son.

Welcome me back with gold, but all I want is a loaded gun,

Or a semiautomatic rifle,

To take on the juggernaut, higher than the Eiffel,

That is my self-hatred.

You try being the multi-faced monster with dilated


That consistently has to jump through loopholes,

To rationalize god’s love for a “human” like myself that’s dictated in the dead sea scrolls.

Dissociative identity disorder P.1

I am not good,

Cause my soul is mostly heartwood,

but I am not bad,

despite wanting to beat up my deadbeat dad.

I am not uneven nor straight.

I’m not queer but also not not.

The problem is that my mind is a knot,

as thick as an apricot.

Internally things aren’t fluid.

I have issues that are deep rooted.

I take more than five pills a day to uproot,

That which is intuit.

That is to say cupid,

Took a shot and ever since me and insanity been on undisputed,


When I look in the mirror…

When I look in the mirror, I have to do a double take,
Fast enough to make my neck break.
Such an intellectual ache,
It is to comprehend that the reflection is me.
Damn is it true; is that really me such a tall sight to see?

It is all an illusion of light bouncing off whatever,
The illusion leads to delusions that are quite clever.
In truth, I am a black hole or perfect storm, whichever,
Image works. I am colliding concepts,
And emotions swirling down to produce this mutated sonnet,
Which is nothing but half of a percent of my abilities to astound and confuse.

There is a disconnect between my face and my internal world.
The skin is supple but the mind is gnarled.
There is a reason why I am always on my guard;
I am a walking fraud,
Emitting confidence and style,
But internally my self-esteem is chewed up by emotional bile.
I don’t see deformities when I look in the mirror;
I see an image that misinforms the world about the steerer.