Head pounding, eyes straining; what is it?

How can one think they are so strong;

When all they can do is whimper?

Flow of tears, impossible to hold

Misery, herself, manifests, tales unfold.

Martyrism strong and clear;

Like a bell, rings through the air.

Selfishness, itself confounding me;

How truly thoughtless can I be?

Intolerant to those such as I,

What is in the wind?

Grasping to obtain an impossible gain.

Achieving only a false front and smile

To leer engagingly again and again.

Whispered words of imaginary truths.

Stares directed so clearly through my haze;

Stabbing so deeply into what they can’t find.

My soul lies hidden, ready to bare.

Yet hide-and-seek is the game I fear.

What hordes of Hell to unleash this time;

As a sharp, whip-crack looses sulphur- by and by.

Devils that drive me to desperate pride

Leave me desolated in a heart laid bare.

Why should confusion make me hesitate

As the mirrored blade draws me nearer?

-Heather Leina’ala Martin-

24 September 1987

revised 17 October 2002