At War

You are a mess!
I am a mess?
Yes.
Yes? Yes? I can't believe this. Yes?

What's not to believe -
There is no panache in you, no talent for love,
none at all for anything remotely subtle.
And you call that talking?
That gibberish you callously hurtle!

But I can write -
Many words. Lines and lines of singing prose,
Sometimes svelte and sweet, or jarring strong.
Surely I can paint my dreams?
My colours, my strokes - that can't be wrong?

There is no fire in what you write...
But I burn!
There is no heart in what you draw...
But I bleed!
Who asked you to, you pompous wretch -
You are barely human by any stretch.

Trash! That is what you are.
Don't say that - please! Look, I can still fly .. look?
Banished you will be, you puny crook -
No! Not me... I am still alive!
A mistake - a mere trifle. Let the Furies connive!

Let there be no pardon for him, no mercy, no grace
Let the solitary silence mask his face -
Oblivion! Thus sentenced is he!
...
...
I live on, etched in smoke and dust
Indelible. Indistinguishable from rust
lining the iron chains of reality.
Because live I must.

I believe, I am quite an expert in defeating my self.