Look at the soil, full of nutrients and life

Look at the deer, it prances happily as it dances

Look at the bird, fluttering with beauty and grace

But if you look at the human, it will punch you in the face

If you see their smile, you look at their crooked mouth

If you look into their eyes, you get trapped inside and can't get out

So, don't look anymore, gouge out your eyes and stop getting trapped

Rip them out, one by one or by the same time so you can learn to say goodbye

Learn to let go and learn to go let learn

because the blind truly sees what the mind can't comprehend

An endless sea of agony where one would wish he was dead

Cold hands grabbing onto a warm heart, still pumping, lub-dub, lub-dub

It squeezes lub-dub-lub-dub-lub-dub, it squeezes and squeezes until the heart opens

You smile because you've finally seen the insides of the heart, but it was terrifying,

The blood was everywhere, and when you went right, there was nothing left,

So, you went left, where nothing was right, and still to this day you are still trying to wipe off the blood

Still smiling with that crooked smile while the deer is still dancing and the bird still has its beauty and grace, some things never change, like their grace, or the human urge to punch something in the face.

We love it though, the blood, we want to be just like it, leave a lasting impression where nothing can wipe us away, we want to be here to stay, even if the sight of us makes some sick, we love it though, don't we.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

We all have urges that we must control, it may not be directly violent.

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Libido's Casket

In patterned memorial, the afflicted lie:
a tattered reflection of a formerly-possessed splendor.
Wide hands, angled jaw, a physique to behold
as that belonging to someone with an attentive touch.

Just as the calm of the service has sunk into gloom,
the subject of remembrance has risen to sitting.
And he spies the mourning, weeping and now thoroughly shocked
payers of respect to what was his expiration.

With a bound to the carpet, removed from his cask,
the whites of his eyes the only signal of spirit;
he grabs by the wrist a young and pretty woman
and slips into her as if by discretion.

The crowd then disperses and the services cast
aside as the subject has ways with his minx,
and after they've finished and gone separate ways,
he'll only stand to die again when it comes most convenient.

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