Your Heart Fell Into My Hands And Now My Palms Are Bloody

This life which we live…
These vast, shiny, pretty things which we build and marvel at, conscious of our self-conscious desire to have others admire them as pefectly as our inner narcissus does…
This society we’ve done, we’ve bedded with satisfaction of self and selfless, blameless youth…
This lie which we breathe; have you no pain for it? Have you no blood not to feel its horrible, flawed and smugly brazen lie? How do you catch the bus from day to day without weeping? How do you suck your ice, how do you drain your coke without fear of reprisal? Without checking your shoulder for demons?
And to be perfectly honest, who am I to question? Whenever there is doubt, there is no doubt as far as I can see. And nothing here that you have said has made me to feel differently. All is as you’ve done, and done it perfectly you have.
The others walk by, flawless in the way which they ignore.
Yet here and now with pen and ink, we suffocate ourselves for want of something perfect.

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Your Heart Fell Into My Hands And Now My Palms Are Bloody by 

Walking in the city on Friday nights and feeling the pain of those who remember how to bleed.


flaw, homelessness, observations, perfection, society, world

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