Damaged Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

There are days where,
I sabotage my own face,
With farcically crafted blemishes
With hand-held deleterious devices.

And there are moments where,
I sentence myself, executed under the flickering fluorescent
Clenching such juvenile resentment
That render me dead in light years.

There are pains as accurate as surgeries,
Incised upon the skin, hence disemboweling
Upon the lightest touch of the precise hurting
Hastily tarnishing what light these eyes are holding.

If eyes are the windows to the soul,
Then the soul must feel violated
For there are entities that see the soul barenaked
Like a carcass left in a war-torn terrain.

I feel dead inside the world
That respires whilst fate churns and severs
What infinitesimal hope I have inside me,
Doors are battered and locked, bestowed with such frailty.