Hope Is Foreign To Such A Sufferer Poem by Melissa Hurst

O, how wicked are my pangs!
They rip me apart as I rest
and keep my heart wrought with agony!

O, my chastising Lord,
what sin have I pursued
to gain your cold shoulder?

I am weak with my sin,
grievous it is,
it defrauds me of happy breaths.

My chest is lead by sighs,
sharp edges tear my thighs,
tis the way I lament.

Dear companion bottle
brings forth my sufferings
and guilt reassures me
of its permanent residency.

I weep and torment myself
with drunken hands,
but they have yet to deliver me
from torturous life.

The Devil can have me!
Cast my scarred flesh
and sorrowful soul
into the lake of fire
for it's scorch cannot compare
to life's sadistic torture!