Sometimes, I write poetry

listening to Regina Spektor, eating leftover pizza: Canadian bacon, pepperoni, green peppers, black olives, mushrooms and onions; I felt inspired to tap into some past emotions

I have seen hell.
And it has a face.
Cold, gaunt, expressionless:
What creature stood before me,
With a face not of anguish nor of sorrow,
Neither contorted in pain nor suffering,
Nay, this face was barren of all cause.
The soulless orbs fixed upon my own:
I have been through hell and back through those eyes.
‘twas a frightening sight I vow never again to see,
For that devoid, spiritless face I saw in the mirror was me.
I have seen hell.
And hell is within me.