Imperfection Brooding Poem by Jacob Biehl

If I were to scratch at my imperfections,
it would rain blood for days,
everything grows colder, as my hope grows darker.
But it's OK, I wanted to suffocate anyway!
Between people so cold, and pain searing hot,
I'm caught in an agonizing dance of despair.
How nice would it be, so woefully well, to be numb.
However I must howl and grit my teeth for patient release.
The twisted laugh and screech, the unhallowed relish,
for so long, I've just wanted to close my eyes...
I've been deemed for no more than a victim.
How could I argue? Even I'm disgusted at myself...
But they can't know that. I bar my teeth, clench my fist.
If I fall, they will all be buried beneath me!
Unknown to even myself, my limitless cruelty,
some imperfections were not meant to be stirred by prodding,
they must pay in flesh, for their misdeeds.
For many of my imperfections lurk hidden claws, tipped with torment.
Fangs for feeding,
spines spent upon shedding souls from vessels,
burning blood and cool conviction.
Cruelty be mine, in hand with a lack of mercy.
Ragnarok sleeping beside, such brooding imperfections,
red, liquid gold the harbinger of my wrath, to bring upon death.
Long I've desired for my teeth dyed crimson,
ever shrouded, a thriving blood lust,
This world, another name for a place to die.
We are no longer of use to me.
Welcome to my ring, welcome to our tomb.
Tonight we shall fall, to my now free Imperfection...