So. We are meeting again, You. You who still haunt my Every waking hour... To you I am to blame For this shell I call home. For whom I blame for this neglect, destitution. I am a man. I am a boy. I am a human. I am everything you Should have known You would leave me as. You who are so bitter So spiteful, you who would Break skin for the malevolence, For the colour; blood. And unto me you left this Learners scar, So you could be a poet. I am a poet, You are a fool. You are a child, you are The neglectful little malignance That is the abode of my every whim, You are the little malicious Greed that left me to thirst As you fed this fire. This pen wouldn't fit so Perfectly In my teeth if you hadn't Shown me how to hold it. You are not a man You are not a boy You do not consider yourself human, You are an object, Aren't you? To which your derision is Well with no bottom. They always seemed justified to treat you differently. And you are the bitter Little worm, As I am the bitter Little snake. As you were so drowned in your self-pity. I am still wet from your Macabre, oh-so philosophical Insights. Shallow as a piss puddle If you must. The puppet on the strings As you were, But I see that not. God I hate you, I hate... I do not hate those scars On your arm, Not so much as Your fathers disappointment, But a lesson you taught Yourself Well. How alive we are. Just you and me. I am the form you wish you had, But having said that... There will be more poems To come.