The Narcissist

The Narcissist

A rolling stone, never still, never true,
Still finds his way to the saints’ pew,
Polished halo, crooked soul,
Playing god in his own control.

He says he’s real
But only in his head.
Built a shrine to his reflection
And calls it “self-respect.”

He’s a storm in a mirror,
A lie in designer truth.
So loud in his silence,
So proud in his proof.

I almost believed him
Almost thought his shine was gold.
But look closer
Every edge of him is old,
Cracked with ego, painted over
With the gloss of “I’m always right.”
He burns bright,
But only by stealing your light.

He blames like it’s prayer,
Throws guilt like stones,
And every wound he leaves
He claims as his own.

Oh, the innocent
They bend, they plead, they pray,
To a man who never shows up,
Never stays.
Still, they take the fall
For his flight,
For his chaos,
For his nights.

And when you wake, empty,
Drained of every drop you gave,
You’ll realize the truth too late:
You were worshiping a grave.