This is sincere.
This is true.
Let this be my writ of misanthropy
To a thankless world of
Who have perfected nothing.
Save the art of accusation.
Woe is he that feels compelled to pen.
Even one word of
I know the hate within passion
With which I love is a travesty.
Let this writ acknowledge these facts.
How I miss
the warmth of red blood...
The color of pitch is cold and hard,
And its merciless to the tenderhearted.
How I miss the
strength of red blood...
Its susceptibility to burn jet,
And the might to withstand a brutal scorching.
How I have learned to
wield this scorched, jet blood
To the gross advantage...
This blood must not go to waste.
All is not yet lost.
words of blood ill-tempered.
Take these words and
Lacerate the soiled flesh.
Impact the brittle bone.
all will bleed together.
May this blood pave the way to solution..
We have all been so wrong -
Conditioned to accept and
approve of substandard
Communication and behavior.
Reason is clouding,
Hearts are hardening,
And the result is murder.
age is grave bound,
Likewise its aging successors.
Aging, all the while, descending -
Developing an even more insatiable thirst
Life among hyenas and asps under vultures
That pick at the corpses of the fallen.
And man will continue to suffer
Until some stand to rally the fray by firm example.
Chaos must succumb to order
Lest these days be
I cannot contribute to disarray.
I simply cannot relate.
Let this be my act of defiance.
Let this be my
refusal to fit in.
Let this be my writ of anthropy...