The Dance

Hate myself, love myself, back and forth I go with this dastardly dance of self-esteem. Bending and swooping arches of mood swings the ups and downs of my life. Disorder and delicate, frail skin absorbing abuse and ill will. Every harshness seeping in deeper like moisturizing vileness. I drape myself in the hatred of others, floating around the room with a second skin plastered on decayed form. Little fairy pirouettes, jumping gleefully about on blood red shaggery.

Performance of the fallen getting sickly fat off self-indulgent misery. Po folks, woe is me, lil violins play my cue. But oh, how I sink and revel in disastrous dwellings and those godforsaken lamentations. Let me be a lemming drifting closer to the cliff. Let the hand of divinity strike thunderous jolts to awaken Pagliacci’s mortal play. The curtains rise, the limelight sets, the acting fool sits in a lump, stump, plump, awaiting cues from the silly psychosis. Damned be the fool, spirals of wicked hate hath been dropped upon the pauper prince. The sneaky fellow hiding from all eyes. The bright smile covering that wincing face. Better to be the party then the dull drum of darkness. What positivity to say? Where is the better tomorrow when you’re blinded by the past?

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