Indebted

A piece of the price of pain

Is hatred

And the price of a piece of hatred

Is pain

Highness, I bow to nobody

But I kneel to a body of water and blood

Every

Single

Night.

 

And if the antidote is not in your hands, then I don't wish to hold them, and if it only means the pain

will wipe away what's left of me, then I'll pay the price of all the hatred in the world

 

For none can contend with he beating of a rock inside an

Icy chest

Place those empty hands against my chest

And you will feel the night.

The nights I myself battle! Now trapped inside me.

How ironic my life has become!

And I medicate and medicate and medicate

In an attempt to kill the wretchedly personal night

To finally burst forth in brilliant day

But my eyes are still black at the center

So this storm isn't over

Yet.

This poem is about: 
Me

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