I’m just a bruised human, on a blood stained street walking around with a gun because they made me. I’m only a puppet to money,
I am chained by paper and the only rhythm I dance to is the chime of gold coins reverberating from them into my soulless enslaved body.
I give into the world’s pleasures because thinking of more is not beyond my capacity but because I wear a cloak of cowardice to keep myself from the wintery truths and the frost bite of reality that I am so keen on escaping.
I succumb to the lures, that attract me because I let them.
I succumb because I want.
I want all that I’m getting to live a lavish life.
Doesn’t matter if it’s a tainted white sheet with innocent blood and it doesn’t matter if my silences echoes cries the money has turned me deaf
I don’t even care.
It doesn’t matter if these sins, this gluttony for power and the lust for control
quakes the entire foundation of my morality and turns it inside out.
It doesn’t matter if I have stains on my soul, I don’t even have a soul.
I’m just a bruised man,
with a demeaning soul happy to be bleeding paint and hue
while others around me bleed life out and I watch them succumb to death the death of will, the death of freedom, physical death and the process of perishing mentally.
The death I gifted them, for making me who I am.