I Hate Myself

A transformation, 
the creases fold into 
a picture of distasteful 
character and essentially 
no value in and of itself 
it is an object, one that 
should be thrown against 
thick walls and shattered 
against hard surfaces 
before burning the hell 
out of every aspect of 
its existence; I talk of 
myself and who I truely 
am. I have no purpose,
I have no reason, I am 
only because, and that 
is why I despise that 
of which I have become,
an incomprehensible 
montrosity of evil that 
roams about the land 
with a spiteful attitude 
and displeasing grin.
She openly welcomes
revierve, abstraction 
and detatchement 
into her life so that 
depression can take 
her useless life.