Bad

He wasn’t born bad.

It grew into him,

Like a parasitic shadow,

He wore like a second skin,

and eventually sunk in—

Stained his soul.

A symphony of strangers,

Always judging him.

They say he’s a worthless,

Good-for-nothing blip.

A malicious mantra,

That repeats in is head,

Tells him again and again,

To let the darkness in.

They wrote his ending,

Before he began.