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My Language


Razor blade words cleave
through layers of self
cutting away insecurity
and endless doubt.
Baring down into what is true,
What is hidden, what was lost.
Keen edged letters strung together
Spelling a blade, whose
apathetic sting slices
lines of bleeding ego
which cover, like a tent,
whatever it is
that I am.
You, and your sword tongue
your razor blade words
and your keen edged letters
are butchering my soul.
If that's what I am.
If I be a soul then
you chop, harshly
separating my thoughts as
a butcher cleaves ribs.
Shall you place me in the cookfire too?
The heart of hell lives in your breast
and heats the fires which forge lost souls.