I have no better angel.
There is no one on my shoulder,
Speaking neither good nor ill.
There are only the demons underneath,
Hidden beneath the shell of civility,
Lodged between hope and despair.
And when that shell cracks,
There is no buffer, no balance,
Only the creeping nature of truth.
And that dark character imposes,
A disposition of twisted thoughts,
Uncured by sanity and love.
And so, I build an armor,
Fortify it with wit and humor,
And pray that temperament dormant.
But truth cannot be denied,
And through sorrow or drink,
It comes through wicked and sexed.
I cannot deny the pleasure imbued,
Of the perverted personality unleashed,
Only regret the pain once reason returns.
Back to A Life Veiled