I'm sorry.
By nature my writings are cruel.
They speak of angry things,
Abused animals and beaten children.
Brother killing brother,
Families splintered.
I can try to soften them,
But the euphemisms only last so long.
Metaphors sharpen themselves,
Turning into barbed hooks.
The truth is that's all I've ever known.
War, death and heartbreak.
There's a reason I'm more comfortable
In a shadowy corner with a knife,
Than I am on a sunlit street holding hands with the girl I love.
It's because she's not there anymore.
She always leaves,
And my knife hasn't ever left me.
It's dependable,
And always sharp.
A man's knives should always be sharp.
*Hie par in tenebris est et in tenebris caput meum