Bite My Tongue

BITE MY TONGUE

Father, you have never heard me crying
Mother, you ignore the fact I am dying
Brother, you moved away to avoid my pain and misery
Sister, you’d soon be the one to paint my stain
Can’t any of you see the wretches you have become?
You’d soon say I was a sinner and an intoxicator
But did you ever hear me speak beyond a drunken stupor?
My words ring loud and clear in my head, they echo!
My wounds sting harsh and real in my soul, they gush!
I’m listening to depression sinking into each of my followers
They bow to a god that long forgot they breathe
Our world has crumbled and the dust left behind burns
Searing our lungs and opening our minds to decay’s love
Friend, can you say you were ever truly mad at hatred?
Enemy, could you ever love yourself the way you love me?
Fiend, could you ever say beauty is only in the soul’s piercing vision?
Elated shit, why do you still love the drug that took your sister’s life?
The time is decaying into a mindless babble of lost hope
You still think you could be saved by someone you’ve never known!
The fool in you is so happy he can’t see his end is sealed and fate be so
My introspection, be it my disease, has taught me I’m not empty yet
This day is a monarchy of fear and images that terrify the devil
And somehow I survived it with only my soul lost and body scarred
Did you find inside yourself the strength to last the trials of hell?
Or did you run frightened to your mommy like a scared little shit?
My voice is screaming to the world and they can’t hear a word
Yet if some pansy who acts tough had said it he’d be famed forever
Masochism is the only way to survive life’s sadistic nature
All the world is a blood sucking leach with no heart and no soul
If sin is wrong, why does it feel so good to do so?
Procreation feels so good and it was never condemned by you
I condemn the followers of the corporate lifestyle, the greedy pigs
I condemn the believers of we’re right they are wrong
I shall not love the arts, for the twisted times they endure
I am my own prophet who doesn’t bend; I don’t need your twisted lessons

-poet Darká