Mirror of Despise

In the specter of beliefs I feel the expectation of my despise

In the logical probability of indifference I often manifest a presumption of circumspection

Hovering behind the looks, words, tones, and guises of interplay

I imagine befuddlement at how bizarre others view me, despite realizing their apathy and better tasks

This is, as I know, self-projection that I believe myself to be odd

My foundational comprehension of normality is skewed

As I assume the vast majority of the world’s population perceives

Atheism, contrarianism, introversion, and thirst for the empirical to leave me the helmet of the outsider

To adorn in battles which do not exist for the tangible, but in the sentimental

Spears in the side of men and railroad spikes are hammered to require the sight and sound

I feel like the world hates me for being who I am, which as a raised Catholic

May be my doubt that I am or am not destined for perdition

Based in no small part on this internal constitution

So therein dances hypocrisy like an electric-chair necklace to sport as totem

I ponder if whatever I tempt certitude for could crackle

Like an octogenarian’s leg as he steps on the ice float to suicide at sea for the good of the tribe

Traditional folklore as to what has happened in time versus the stories told

Twinkle like boreal sky-lights phasing in a fazed man to sprinkle tap-water and find salvation

As the drops drip follicles and ivory garments guessing who is there to explain

That all these eyes glaring are as equally confused, rather than biased towards one’s nonexistence

As if I owe a debt for breathing oxygen that could have been utilized for another

Lungs inflate as repetitious thefts and an engorging debt commensurate with hatred

As each moment expands so does the differential between the measure of the ecumenical desire

Of the populace that it would be easier on all involved if I would just go away

Quit speaking, writing, trying, wanting, believing, thinking

Silence the horde and plummet the casket into the fallow ground

So that nothing is emitted to double the damnation permeating the countryside

I recognize the apathy and in a way this imprinted anger is like a prayer

That some of these people would care, as I cannot resolve my days with her or the hers before her

So the globe has become a sea of doppelgangers mouthing such craggy- speech hurling boulders

I am exhausted and hunger for softness; a nesting ground

Stoned to life, bludgeoned with faith’s reply so that all is numb

The remaining inkling of wanting pops in the correspondence to remind me I am still alive

That after all is what pain is for.