The more I cry, the more I feel I'm acting,
Trying to be human when I know it's not my place.
I've erased the interface for interacting,
And have become a waste of space.

I cannot say I do not see what's good in me,
But despite my hate for hatred, its seed grows deep inside.
I find that this slime grows only inwardly.
Self-loathing has been feasting on my mind.

And wandering through the play-grounds of my past,
I grasp in vain for smiles I wish I could recall.
I fall in the hall that's so high and wide and vast,
I must tear down what I once built tall.

The foundations that once gave me pride are rotten;
Worms and termites feasting on my sad attempts at love.
The doves high above are drunk and have forgotten,
These pathetic, selfish crimes I'm guilty of.