Bitter blackness, boiling brew.
My vict'ry when myself I slew.
And yet, to finish, raised knife -
found that I could not go through.
Tore down walls instead, with rage,
on instinct - acting half my age.
I was built to be half-finished,
I was born to burn my own page.
Plaque, some envy and a tooth decaying
found out that my demon wasn't playing.
A perverted, self-run cabaret;
A half-way state of things displaying
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