You've inspired me to post my own poem-free for public mockery. In all seriousness though, please let me know what you think.
Yeah, written back when I was...thinking some not so nice things about myself. It's depressing, to say the least.
Imperfection demands my hesitant hand-hold,
kept away from the light for its own salvation,
as my hollow tears refuse my arguments.
I am shoved by her wicked gaze,
an obsidian ice whose frost knows no bounds,
and in the center of her taunting I am thrust.
Her friends have been waiting,
Hatred and Desolation among them,
circled around my liability,
on trial for a cause unknown.
Their smiles are of the mischievous toddler;
in their glory they hide a secret not meant to be known.
all highlighted with lascivious pleasure,
tell the story of truth,
and I find myself the main character,
the victim in their macabre tale.
Their slander and labels break upon me,
as soon as their blades come into contact with my skin.
I lust for the credibility of their words to be false,
but the crimson entwined with my white proves otherwise.
I demand my sorrow to come and comfort me,
but it will not obey me,
for even it knows I am nothing,
as it rapes what is left of my joy.
They dance now;
they have taken their own creation,
mutilating its wickedness,
manipulating its cruelty;
they have become the ring around my rosie.
The meaning has flown away from the Sun’s touch,
it has penetrated the obscurity that covers naked form.
From the melody its song has weaved,
the origins of my suffering are shown to me,
and my tears weep for their own ignorance.
It was not the brazen intent of others
that banished the last whispers of my silhouette;
Hope has watched, her stare as stoic as the blood of mountains,
the crimes sprawled helplessly before her,
they hold no worth in the artic glass peering in from the window of her heart.
Her intentions thought me guilty,
and so of them she spoke,
her words bringing forth my punishment,
on a breeze with no tender passion.
My abhorrence for her,
it still keeps me company
as I remain here,
hanging by the noose of my own hands.