often times my essentials defeat my ideals,
and i enrage myself beyond reason.
i imagine standing before a boxing bag
and allow the innate to accumulate.
i lunge at the load with years of laments
yet it's weight doesn't wince at my world.
i collapse as the contempt reconvenes in me,
i die in its desolate displeasure.
i am irredeemable, vindictive, vile.
i am concurrently feeble and frail.
and so exists a mural on my framework-
my inspiration is me,
and my outlet is simultaneously she.
