I am no saint,
But god’s ugly child.
I keep no faith,
In my tragical life.
All I have are scars,
That wound me too deep;
Painful stories,
That I completely weave.
I get the outcome,
Too depressing to tell.
But inferior I am,
A petty competitor,
A worthless perfectionist,
A repulsive ingrate,
And a dying outcast.
No aura of mysteries,
To hide my blemishes.
Only the worst terrors
Reveal my inside.
No angel am I
To spread the feathered wings.
No hero am I,
To show the thing called “brave,”
But disgrace describes me.
For annihilating is something
That I acknowledge
To be done to myself.