-Pain Will Define Their Death-

A hammer to crash through what it is to be human.
Wield it with contempt or have it torn from your arm.
We are wolves chewing at the ankles of the world.

A fear that's richer than cream. Hunt those who run.

Hurdling into clay hands. (I am a weapon.)
Prayers broken at the wrists.
To provide me a life I can bleed on.

Liberate it from a future rotten with their breath.

Hurl their bodies into rivers.
Let their names be forgotten.
May no one grieve for their children.
Let their loss trumpet silent.

I will speak. Let me make a promise to my kin.
The torn body of a man is not a tragedy.
Pain is their truth and it will define their death.

A fear that’s richer than cream. Hunt those who run.

Hurdling into clay hands.
(I am the weapon.)
Prayers broken at the wrists.
To provide me a life I can feed on.

Pain will define their death.
Hunt those who run.

-Victim-

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 is foreign.

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.

-Violence, a Worthy Truth-

Oh, intimate father, speak not to me in tongues.
But in movements of rebellion from which I’ve come to know.
Lie beside me with purpose and I make peace with being orphaned by this world.
For it is not of me, and I not of it.

We will tower above the corpulent stars.
Where God must lie in bloated rot amongst the fouling whales.

Oh, intimate father, press my cheek.
Breathe through me for my lungs cannot carry your words.
Let me prove to you the violence that we know to be truth.
Take me farther to a world that’s worthy and providing of the fruits I hunger.

Show me that I am no longer alone.

-The Parting of a Neck-

They ache from a place that's not far from our own.
Incessant pattering.
If you listen closely you can hear
the suffering of strained twine.
There's only a membrane that separates us.
It's very thin, and weak in its resolve.
It's a place from which hands can reach, but mortality is foreign.

Incantations hang from the shelves of bent whispers
and corpulent hands.
The noose that they gave me, you can hear it unfurl.
The parting of a neck is deafening.

Piloted eyes burst with a clandestine revelation.
All a pool of blackened hammers.
Our spirit the nail. Our bodies the anvil.
They stare with the weight of them.

A horror gapes, the yawning mouth of Hell.
Countless teeth chew the bones of weaker men.

Devour my failings, and the character that led me there.
Cleanse me of filth. Reduce me to void.
Cleanse me of filth.

Crush my body between jaws of persecution.
Cleanse me of filth. Reduce me to void.
Cleanse me of filth. Reduce me to void.
Cleanse me of filth.

They carve curses from the feet of our broken children.
They reached for our throats when tolerance burned away.
It was an alien notion.

Incantations hang from the breathes of bent whispers
and corpulent hands.
That noose that they gave me, you can hear it unfurl.
The parting of a neck is deafening.