Talking Self-Pitying Blues

Talking Self-Pitying Blues. I have splintered hearts, like delicate glass, I have wished the shattered parts, like yesterday, to quietly pass, I have stood on the ramparts, seeing with wounded eyes, the blood soaking into the cold grass. My days have been many, my nights long, my regrets keeping me company, all alone in the throng. I have wished to erase, my countless misdeeds, seeking redemption beneath the glaze, while my guilt on my soul feeds. I have wronged, and I have been wrong, spitting on the kindest faces, who wished only to belong. My days, my nights, reek of callous slights, that I have dished out with random cruelty, upon the truest ones, never turning around to tend to a single casualty. My days, my nights, are innured by conceit, my hubris blinds me, to my very own deceit. How can I seek absolution, for my innumerable sins, when I have fled time and time again, disposing off emotions into overflowing garbage bins. My days, my nights, may never see peace, for still, I do not in truth repent, and still, my charade continues, refusing to cease.