More new poetry: "Undeserving"

To paraphrase a quote by William B. Sprague (and recently revived in my memory by my writing buddy @BAWilsonWrites), sometimes you heat the iron, then strike it; and sometimes, it heats because you strike it. For me, occasionally, writing anything opens a floodgate of other writings. Tonight, apparently, it's one of those nights. Insomnia helps, as well.

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Undeserving
—Bacil Donovan Warren

I sat alone, a wayward soul

And thought about the past

That time that heaven bent to help,

And on its help I passed

I stood aloft, above the fray

A giant towering high

Vicissitudes were beneath me there

Untouchable was I

I didn’t see, and never dreamed

The morass that I stirred

Was wholly caustic just to think:

The truth that I demurred

But when the spire I lived within

Finally rotted through

Destroyed by thoughts created by

My narcissistic view

I sank into the swamp I’d made

—Which I’m still swimming in—

And swore to hate the heaven

For not giving me my win

A win I thought that should be mine

Simply for being me

Her love should just appear

And now, at long last, I can see

I absolutely don’t deserve and never will possess

The love she bears: that is reserved for men who aren’t a mess.