How have I failed entirely
to prove the worth I feel must be
inherent to my life? My soul
has lost the drive for futile goals,
their purpose now a mystery.

I shrink within redundancy,
my cries a hollow, lifeless plea
for meaning in a broken world
of hateful boys and spiteful girls.
I bend and break for all to see.

But as I kneel upon the glass
of shattered dreams not come to pass,
reflected there are all the things
I meant for good. Their hollow rings
resounding there as they amass.

I’m spent. My works have been for naught.
I push aside my efforts fraught
with selfish nonsense strangled by
capricious whims I won’t deny.
I seek the truth I should have sought.

I cannot self-sustainedly
be justified. Inherently
I break my word. I hate my love.
I know that truth is found above
my sorrowful discrepancy.

And then I feel the horrors flee.
The burden of contingency
is lifted from my lifeless arms
by hands protecting me from harm.
Within his sacrifice, I’m free.