It’s the razor-sharp kitana that thrusts itself down my throat
slashing me open from the middle like a tube of hamburger meat
spilling my innards for all the world to see.
I mop my tears of ink with sheets of loose leaf,
attempting to staunch my bleeding psychology.
And the carnivore inside all of us licks its chops at the
Scent of freshly crimson pools arranged artfully on the page.
Rorschach blots have nothing on me; tell me what you see
and consume each granule of meat perfected under heat
served up fresh, being devoured instantly
delicious in its relatability
in a way that puppies, kittens, ponies, and rainbows never could be
in a way that not even love can conquer all in my psyche
and break free into meaningful poetry
but triteness never came from soul-ripping screams
and so it is: the only way my words seem to mean anything
with nothing to gain and yet always something to lose
I am scarred to perfection
beauty from dejection
Pain is my finest muse
All I seem to be able to write effectively is sad or angry pieces. This is my venting of that very fact. Lamenting about my skill at lamenting, if you will?
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