Wounds from Egypt.

She speaks a lot. She defeats me by the words of her testimony, Dumpening my spirit by the blood she draws! The pain is so deep it leaves me numb. She never yells in her rebuttals but coughs out blood... I question the necessity of things being like this for my own is not mighty to save. Yet it satisfies her, I am her slave... That's how she spits as she pleases! Leaving the all of me in pieces, I damage control... The rich controls the poor, The mighty shall always be dominant over the weak! And to him that has none, even the little that he has shall be taken away from him! But wait, A lot has already been taken from me! And should I talk honestly, she found a way to remain a part me though. Pain is addictive! Poverty grounds me to remain captive. Her mouth runs deep to the darkest pit... She takes me there every time she talks spit! That cave of terror... Where I'm abandoned in darkness to die! Does it ever gets better...? Because my wounds, Constantly scratched by her dreadful words. Her little sister, Egypt, was supposed to help her help me maintain But on the contrary, she enslaved me. She bruises me all the time but I don't mind... At least give my blood a chance to clot.