3 February 2013
A cold, hard world waits outside, Unsympathetic to my fears. To strive and fail might hurt my pride. A stinging, scarlet trace appears.
A treadmill full of worker drones Mocks the hope of having dreams. Why bother even leaving home? The crimson bloom swells to a stream.
A loveless life, a lonely heart, A mirrored image I abhor, Miscast for life's sweetest parts. A sticky droplet hits the floor.
A tribute offered to despair, A sacrifice to greater ills. Give in to everything unfair With every slice, and blood that spills. Withdrawn, the hand that could repair Injustices that run so rife. My body is a temple where I turn upon myself, the knife.
Cut To The Truth • Opuss № I