my first time picking up the handle
brandishing a weapon I feel like long forgotten
the lost mantle of a practioneer
a master if you will
so strange yet so fumilar
muscle memory a disaster
lashings of love slashes of hate
wounds so deep you can't erase the mistake
now my stance is off
each movement feels wrong
something inside still urges me forward
begs me to continue
now all is forgotten and only the feeling remains
my love for this violence welcomes me again
can you read this massacre
let me help you by turning the page
poetry my art form
the pen
my weapons name