Shorn of apocryphal pride,
the locks falls predicting strife.
Cranium exposed, denial of aesthetic.
Push it a little farther.
All of this burnt to ashes,
all of this torn to rags.
I don t know what the fuck have I become?
Synapses snapping mortality decimated.
Breakdown whiskey shifts hate into overdrive.
Realizing it s murder of the self so clean.
Hand reaches out desecrates impunity.
Ripping away foundation s identity replacing with shame.
Transgression mythologized, indiscretions immortalized.
Anger inflamed with dry rot, pushing towards severance.
What a bloody mess. Visiting dark sites unknown,
grief lands like a ton of bricks. All of this burnt to ashes,
all of this torn to rags