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. 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. Victim.) And you deserve the worst that this Hard and indifferent world has to offer.