Take a minute to remember
every fucking sentence you’ve rendered
hopelessly beating me
into this bleeding dynasty.
The heart of the warrior
smoulders underneath your weathered boots.
With arms like crowbars,
you shouldn’t be holding anybody’s hand.
Endless pain,
months of mad monologs with the walls,
and I’m too tired to notice the draft
rising from the floorboards.
Someone stabs in the night,
another one bleeds to death.
A love/hate tragedy.
A blind knife,
the blade of confusion,
struck
with flares
and embers,
sprites and dark clown laughter.
What’s the point of punishing you,
when you’re not even aware of having done anything wrong.
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