Why is it that my words echo with such deep longing and feel so true,
But my actions call to task each syllable, each letter, each sentence,
Make me a liar in my own eyes, and shame me to the one I love.
Why is it that I regret each moment of time that I connect to another,
When I know that it will end in tears, that it will end in sadness, in another broken heart,
Because inside I never seem to change from the disgusting thing I’ve always been.
Why is it that the outside which feels so pure and grasps for grace blessed with integrity is so sweet,
When foulness runs afoot on seconds of impulse, chased spots of purgatory, whims of fancy,
Forever haunting myself with the tastes of beauty that I want the world to see me for.
That I think I can be.
But I deceive myself worse than all the rest.
I can never change.
So it seems.
And only God can forgive me in the end.
For I can never forgive myself.