My paragon

To what part of me is compensated?
This longing to remedy my despair.
Eminent beyond and above repair.
I grow as dark as the passing moon shade.
Forgotten, reminded and aggravated.
My angst is evermore present and elevated.
Must I amend my character and modify my feature.
Am I so flawed, I must defend every league of my depth?
A worn out self-diluted attempt to call upon a painful creature.
Pain as numbless, as a hole is gaping wide.
A knife taken from my back and placed in my side.
Blood flows free without the need to break the bleed.
This road I follow doesn't seem to pardon my sorrow; nor refrain
This storm in me, created this force,
Whereas the hot air of deception,
collides with my bitter cold obsession.
Winds blown by contrition with rueful rain.
This self-afflicted acknowledgement of worth,
self-oppressed
Has me down in the mouth,
self-compressed.
My only relief, is to hemorrhage my spirit within,
Through a ventilation duct between my fingers and pen.
To employ the ink as the grease.
Venting the letters of my soul upon a sheet,
A soulless vault, containment of self-release.
My marathon,
Running exhaust of loathing, my heart content,
My paragon!