The greatest form of self-torture,
is not the inflicting of bodily pain,
for when eyes see but pain’s allure,
blood runs into a glass of champagne.
No! Not even Hamlet’s curse,
could plunge your soul into a fiery chamber.
When a poet savours the bitter rain,
his toxic heart blooms still bluer.
The greatest form of self-torture,
is artistry fated to breed an outcast,
denied by those resentful murmurs,
by His self-loathing, His wistful heart.