Renaissance

When did hating myself become such an art?

I am the Da Vinci of self loathing, aiding in the rebirth of shame and inadequacy

After breathing, it is the thing I do most in life

I don't quite recall when my childhood ended
Innocence, hope, love and happiness were victims of it's downfall

I was a passionate child and now a passionless adult
Obliterated by the home truths of life

I see smiling faces and hear joyful laughter
They are content

I ask in a world with unimaginable suffering and gross poverty, how anyone can be content with being content

It is a perplexing affair as you see I am not without my pomposity and hypocrisy

It is hard to live an ordinary life when you feel you are destined for extraordinary things, but extraordinary is for the others, the rich, the beautiful, the exceptionally gifted

I am none of these things

Yet how come this underlying, undeniable, unrelenting, overwhelming feeling burns through me, like a match reaching it's cindered fulfillment, that I am destined for those extraordinary things

Yet, I feel I am nothing, but yet I am something, a human being
In this world with body, heart, mind and emotion

Alas there it is again, emotion, my emotion, my pitiful yet unwavering hatred of the only one thing I truly have and need, myself.