The Flaky Derelict

Of masks, monsters and demons caged in my head.


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He wishes he was simple minded,

naïve and blinded,

quiet and one sided,

with defined dimensions,

and young connections,

socially awkward,

morally forward,

marching onward,

towards content and bliss,

a chance he shan’t miss,

but him,

a pariah

with mind bewildered

and masks kindled,

dwelling in despair,

beyond repair,

a flaky derelict,

who adores conflict,

and lands extinct,

where he longs to rest in peace,

rather than rust in pieces,

eternal, alone,

for sins he must atone,

with demons in his head,

he wishes he was dead,

yet damage was done,

a lifetime undone,

with the times he spun

and he spun and he spun

to live scarred,

marred by what was,

to mourn what will,

and to dance to the melodies of what is,

for what was, is compromising,

for what will, is agonizing,

and what is, is beautifully melancholic.

Yours awfully,


The What-if’s and the Should-Have’s will eat your brain

John O’Callaghan


Author: Zeus

I am the grey area, everything by choice and nothingness by choice, wherein everything is possible as it is improbable.

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