Diary of a broken man (part one)

There’s a fire in your belly, raging like an inferno,
Acting out in performances of violence at a whim,
The line between loyalty to preconceived ideas of wrong and right,
Or that of some abandoned idea, half salvaged by your broken hands,
Merge ever closer, skirting each other, sizing each other up.

If it were not for the daily beatings you witnessed as a child,
The constant thud of your father’s fist against your mother’s rosy complexion,
Still managing a smile, when she kissed you good night at bedtime,
Was it this? That caused an internal mirage of black and blue,
To cease up your veins, so that no sympathy could break free.

Burned so brightly that you allowed no one close enough,
To let your guard down, replaced kindness with hatred,
And drove everyone you ever cared about away, heart beating furiously,
But in those silent nights, you would go under your covers,
As if you were a child awoken in the night by a bad dream, inhale, exhale, cry.