Corrupt contentment settled over broken bone.
A mixture of faith and scorn laid atop a soul left alone.
An angry cry in the dead of night,
Begging for all that is just and right.

Perhaps you are being pessimistic,
Or perhaps you are being entirely realistic,
But whatever the case may be,
You have no jurisdiction on me.

Angled satisfaction as filthy as blood residue on the street.
A combination of guilt and pleasure echoed by running feet.
There is a gasp for air from a struggling throat,
But for this plea of pain there is no antidote.

How dare you come here and say such a thing;
It's as if you're accusing me of the suffering you bring.
I'm telling you once and for all,
I'm not here to catch you when you fall
Into that pit of despair;
I am not something you can use to repair
You broken and battered self.

A man left standing in the dark,
Whistling to himself the song of a lark
To hold back his own bottled fear.
His clothes in muddled fashion with a slight tear,
He doesn't know
Where to go.
Who are you to turn away from him?

I'm not turning the other cheek to no man.
All I am doing is trying to find sense in why you ran
To me of all people.
Is there no one else you can confide in?

Had a journal once,
Something I held tightly to my chest.
I told it every last thought I possessed.

What happened to it?

It quit.
Like you did.