To paraphrase a quote by William B. Sprague (and recently revived in my memory by my writing buddy @BAWilsonWrites), sometimes you heat the iron, then strike it; and sometimes, it heats because you strike it. For me, occasionally, writing anything opens a floodgate of other writings. Tonight, apparently, it’s one of those nights. Insomnia helps, as well.
Undeserving
—Bacil Donovan Warren
I sat alone, a wayward soul
And thought about the past
That time that heaven bent to help,
And on its help I passed
I stood aloft, above the fray
A giant towering high
Vicissitudes were beneath me there
Untouchable was I
I didn’t see, and never dreamed
The morass that I stirred
Was wholly caustic just to think:
The truth that I demurred
But when the spire I lived within
Finally rotted through
Destroyed by thoughts created by
My narcissistic view
I sank into the swamp I’d made
—Which I’m still swimming in—
And swore to hate the heaven
For not giving me my win
A win I thought that should be mine
Simply for being me
Her love should just appear
And now, at long last, I can see
I absolutely don’t deserve and never will possess
The love she bears: that is reserved for men who aren’t a mess.