For as long as I can remember,
my life has been something
inflicted upon me rather than
something I've chosen to live.

This room smells of sick animals.
I struggle to scratch hieroglyphs
expressing my hideous descent
into perceived sanity.

Down and down my heart goes,
wriggling out of a hole in
the sole of my left shoe.

I nod my head, clap my hands,
make a joyful noise.
I stare at the sun until my eyes
are cinders.

I can never claim the title
of victim until I identify exactly
what the victor has separated from me.

David Kowalczyk

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/memories-of-pagan-gods/