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I can see the blades you've placed. The ones you dance upon.
(On which you squirm.
) Forcing movements that beg us to believe that the pain was gifted.

You don't know what it is to be
gutted. A black knife, searing and hungry...
What I wouldn't give to find its home in you (twist.)
To find your fear and pray it dissolves you.

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Soft hands and a soft mind.
A self-loathing, self-righteous excuse. Your suffering's endless.
I watch you carve your skin. Milked ribbons they coil and wilt.
A bloated gut oozing your sorrow so slow and tender-
(Weakling.) May your sorrow bring fruition.
I hope that you find the pain you
believe this world has built for you.

Your feeble shell crushed beneath a steady and rigid boot.
A whimper. A whispered weakness. A miserable fetal heart
That only knows the warmth of a guiding hand.
(Insect. Craven. Deceiver.
...Never to know the flavor of accountability.)

Your tongue's made sweet with pity and pleas.

You grow richer with every limp-necked sorrow.
(You miserable fucking coward.
And you deserve the worst that this
hard and indifferent world has to offer.

Writer(s): kyle rasmussen

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