It Could Have Been Me

Self-regard,
yeah, in the octagon,
with self-loathing,
settle it
with the world all around
roaring for a winner,
it doesn't know who.
Self-regard, with no
other regard,
and the nerve tree jangles,
branches bow,
they can't be cut back,
a boss stretched out
in 16 bits,
ending.
I was full of hate, then,
but it was so unfocused,
pointless without reasons,
groundless without solutions.
I was so lucky, then,
just to hate with purity,
that negated precision,
reasonless, unresolved,
with no need,
and now what has it become?
A pebble that I clutch,
that draws purple to the
rings of my eyes.
Just look how the others turned out,
my god, it could have been me.