I pour ink onto paper, and blood soon follows,
released through my callouses and blisters,
as my body is torn and my veins turn hollow.
My pride is swallowed, through an eternity,
through the plague of spewed propaganda
and threats, and I'm no longer up to being gritty.
I can not guarantee for me to forever be here,
yet finally I'm taking a vacation from the inevitability,
of a corrupt world, full of interminable doses of fear.
As I feel the tears from the seams from my own words
as I run out of garnet for the rivers that cascade from my wounds,
yet for some reason I long for the chirping of birds
and for galloping herds, to once more bring peace and innocence.
Long lost through centuries of spilt blood for power,
and the streams of the red looping through cities ever since.
No one can survive on wits; there is only the ability to kill
or be killed, by the enemy that is all but you, and the
blood-sucking leeches of humanity who've had their fill.