Plague's Worth

 Every morning I face the devastation which my life has become.

I place myself on a mantle of hate, my world a waste,

my intentions cruel in the making, crueler still in the waiting.

Do I not know the sheer pain of it all?

That I should either face this darkness alone

or invite another to share my misery?

Yet who would this other be were there such?

Not you, too unpleasant for even the dreariest of moments, the darkest of discord. 

Shall I no more share my bed with thee than thou would truthfully be wed to me?

Thou speakest only in the dryest of terms, the ripest of disease -

for who else holds this burden than the brethren to thee,

the meekest of subtleties, the deadliest curse -

and this is my life I plague with my worth.

Pure Waste

 Do I hate my life?

No, I simply hate everything it has become.

Lies, distractions, and a quest for more senseless meaning in a meaningless dilemma.

How else do I survive the day to day mediocrity?

Understand this and you shall begin to know me.

My world revolves around disillusioned images of your hate toward me.

And I'm never good enough to repair the damage done generations back.

My daughter inherits my burden and I wonder why.

How could I have allowed such a terror to occur - simple - just one more failure.

One of so very many.

And maybe I fail to realize some beneficial cause for all this, yet to suffer a cause may not be a worse fate.

And again excuse me for I have failed.

That's all I am to you, one sad pathetic worthless excuse - a waste of pure oxygen.