Disarmored

Sorry for syllabic self loathing.
Words were my armor,
and made for comfortable clothing.
While I dug ever deeper, my own grave exposing.
The familiarity all too foreboding.
So beware the bereaved, that lonely leads in.
For, I sparkle more than the unknown contents of your dust bin.
Just enough to relate to, and therefore your trust win.
But look closer, look within.
For our fears on our face we mustn’t pin.
Sick dog, or fat cat act.
Both have a way of leading lips to react.
So I’ll inspire,
piles of spiders,
and web freed weavers like me.
One who treads the easy road,
finds sloth and self doubt soon erode.
Into seamless puppet shows,
where convenience builds to bitter moans.
Overlapping in distrustful drowning.
So, hello my frowning friend, self loathing.
But, as I’ve said before, such comfortable clothing.