[F4A] Craven Core

Depravity, a word seldom used to describe oneself, yet it is what I embody, for I am the desolate host of my own misery. There it is in me, the writer who witnessed the forsaking of my sanity, an epoch spent in madness. Once more a prisoner to the compulsions of this addled mind. Drifting, stranded upon the shores of time, twisted, and blind. Driven to the abyss once and again, the freedom in the shackles, the tie that binds, this knotted destiny come unwind, the hate that is my love, the relief that is my pain, all one and the same, for I have become them once again.
These waxen wings cannot fly, this decrepit heart is filled with lies, in a world where men are monsters and monsters are men. I bear this false cross upon my heart once again. For she who bears her soul, must wear her heart upon her sleeve and risk the bitter taste of defeat. An embittered soul, the poison, the malady I’ve become; the brandished dagger upon my whispering eye. I pluck out the tenderness within my soul, take it in my hand, grasp it, crush it before all to behold. This strength encumbers, this bravery torn asunder, for it all, I am hollow, on the outside and the inside shallow. A manifest contradiction, strength born to hide the weakness, bravery born of cowardice.

For all my rage, as a bird I live, a prisoner within this gilded cage.