Cipher

I can feel it in my bones and in my teeth,
this unholy tremble of bleeding rage.
I cry goblets of liquid hate and my abrasions
set sail on the wind of my plight.

Every one who passes by me sparks the flint,
I am ablaze with an every day hate and tomorrow's regret.
Was it God that made me this way? No,
God called in sick that day.

So who do I blame for this malfeasance,
who do I point my crooked finger at in malice?
My mother, the carrier of the abomination,
she knew not of what she sired.

My father, a simple organic man,
his roots grow as deep as his pride.
His command of the world, lackluster and drole,
he is not the architect of my disaster.

So here I sit, driven to wittle my fingers
down to the bone, down to the teeth.
Written, wrote, write, writing until the
answers appear from lines of cryptic tomfoolery.