Wasted

Here I am again for granted. Taken for a ride to hell and back. Where I know I should be damning I end up damned, damned and dirtied and weakened and shamed. All for nothing, for some fragile thing that verges on fiction. This toxic tale that I am above but refuse to rise above. That should not even have begun. A story reeking of futility, where I am reduced to a grovelling quivering mass, scattered thin by the feet at which I scrabble and kiss. Scattered by their kicks. Only for kicks. Objectified, used and wasted. Ground paper thin and made to be this flimsy excuse of a being. To be taken in unforgiving fists and waved and tossed and torn and scattered like the garbage I've become. Nothing more than a tattered scrap. Reduced through my intercourse with mediocrity, which I embrace and devour as if it is the only option. To accept a half-life, riddled with fractured pieces which never amount to a whole. Although I often feel so full and substantial with things I am and things I love and things I want to share, with caring and emotion and goodness. But it becomes nothing through ignorance, through apathy. Voided by the indiference I am shown. Left only with a longing and sorrow so full and mature, so repetitious, I feel it could be deemed ancient by now. A million years for every meagre minute it has prevailed in my young life. Always left wanting. Always the fool, a jester to the world, condemned, doomed to forever entertain this false monarchy. Will you lend me your empty applause, my ingracious hosts? Deepen my wounds with falsification and have no fear. I will not feel appreciation, and I will not find love.