I am poisoned.

I am poison.

The face in the mirror is unrecognizable.

He wonders what had happened to the crusade.

Battle born.

Scarred with self-inflicted wounds.

Who is this person?

Why does he look tired?

Maybe it’s because of all the feigning.

There is no antidote.

No panacea.

Just more alcohol

And cigarettes

And ashes

And smoke

And fast women.

It pays to be free.

You pay to ONLY believe

that you are free.

I’ve spent more than what my body can cash in.

I’d like to think that I’m the spider.

Yet I am the fly.