In this skin I'm bound, a captive to my flaws,
Waging wars within, against invisible laws.
I am the artisan of my own undoing,
A heart that whispers ruin, while outwardly wooing.
My silence is a scream that no one can hear,
A testament to the pain I nurse year by year.
I am the sailor and the storm, the sea's own jest,
With every sabotage, I fail my own test.
Beneath my skin, a tempest roars, a silent, screaming maelstrom,
A canvas smeared with shades of pain, my flesh, its woeful sanctum.
I'm sculpted from the purest hope, yet marred by my own hand,
An artist of self-sabotage, on seas of doubt I'm stranded.
I recognize the demon's face, in mirrors, it does lurk,
Each whispered self-defeat I give, becomes my darkest work.
With every pulse, I'm chasing shadows, fleeing from the sun,
The more I seek the light above, the less I become one.
A cacophony within my ribs, a symphony unsung,
The melody of 'what could be' on rungs of sorrow hung.
I am the architect of fear, the mason of despair,
Building walls around my heart, none can reach me there.
I whisper to the silken dark, "Come cradle me to sleep,"
For in my dreams, I sometimes find, the solace that I seek.
Yet, I awake to morning's glare, a cruel, unyielding host,
Reminding me, relentlessly, of what I miss the most.
How I long for gentle hands, to quell this raging storm,
To guide me through the twisted paths, to shelter, safe and warm.
Yet, here I stand, amidst the gale, a figure all too slight,
Screaming into the void of night, bereft of any might.
My tears, they fall on hallowed ground, they're silent as the grave,
An epitaph to all I've lost, to all I've failed to save.
Yet in this purgatory's clutch, where hope has fled the scene,
I am the lost, the damned, the cursed, a person with no demesne.
Amidst this splendor wrought with ache, where beauty pains to breathe,
I am both the prisoner and the jail, with rusted, heavy keys.
Alas, my voice can climb no more, 'tis trapped within my throat,
A symphony of shattered glass, on despair's notes, I float.
This war within my weary flesh, it rages and it reels,
A battle that I never win, but the only one that feels.
In the mirror's gaze, I see the enemy's eyes,
The architect of my despair, cloaked in my disguise.
I lay traps for myself, paths I cannot tread,
Oh, to break this cycle's chain, and from my demons run,
But I am the night, and I am the stars, and I am the undone.
So here I stand, in radiant gloom, a beacon of the night,
A paradox of misery, where darkness dons the light.
I am the struggle, I am the pain, too deep for words to tell,
In a prison made of my own flesh, I am my carousel.
