I found some of my older poems just today. They were in a plastic tote, along with some diary entries, an old half-finished screenplay, and some story ideas and notes. The following is a poem I wrote in 1998 while struggling with active alcoholism and marijuana use. You can see how hopeless I felt back then.

I, the sinner,
Hopelessly doomed to express,
To opine,
To suggest,
To tell;

I, the deviant,
Hopelessly sentenced to dine
On the young carcasses
Of the oppressed;

I, the devil,
Hopelessly abandoned
To die alone;

I, the sinner,
With nothing to call home;
I, the sinner,
With nothing.

© 1998 Steven Barto

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