No allowing for success;

deserved or not.

Not a second spared

to contemplate the

sabotaging menace

that lurks and squats

in the same squalid

corner of the mind,

self esteem used

to occupy,

and love won't find.

Not a second given

to the cause of self.

Not a healing word

in the inner prism-

mind made prison.

Not a thought of

love could pass above

the drowning suds-

a diluted result

of the person that once occupied

the tenancy of me.

Not a second glance at

the wanton hatred of

the mirror...

Not a thing left for myself.

I walk past myself,

screwed up in a ball

and thrown on the floor,

everyday,

and spit out

piteous prophesies predicting

whats is next to decay.