Trifles of the Lobotomy Kid

I cling onto my misery like an alcoholic to his glass,
welcoming anguish and tribulation with open arms.
I've begun this trivial love affair with torment,
it keeps me kicking.
It is my tool, my trade of choice.
I'll record the annals of my woes,
and introduce the world to the lobotomy kid
with his sorry tales,
trying to sell these stories of despair.

This is because I want to be like all the great ones.
The ones that have carved their names into stone.
The ones whose works have been immortalized.
I'm reputed to be the master over my domain of ink and paper.
The composer of words.
The architect of prominent works.
With insight into the somber crevices of existence
and the murky chasm that is the human condition.
But I find the words, instead,
manipulating me.

Here lies my greatest fear.
No longer can i sit with this.
A slowly fading voice whispers disquieting words of insecurity.
Call it misguided,
but the only lesson I have truly learned throughout my days
migrating this neurotic path
is the ill humored truth that people,
the meager excuses for humanity,
are irrational.
If i fall sway to objectivity,
I will find myself compromising the only faculty
that should not be taken from me.
Alas, perfection is the flaw that haunts the mind of humankind.

I perch myself upon these roots of self doubt
and envision a future,
always finding it inane to pierce the miasma clouding it.
But that is the delicate lesson to be learned of harrowing unknowns.
A process of metamorphosis is an inevitable intricacy
and can not be ignored.
Change.
It is the happiest and saddest part of life.