Handcuffed to a post, body chained to death.
Rusted irons pulling his spirit towards Hell.
Shackled souls who cry in hope.
His name in blood on white-washed walls.
Handcuffs line my wrists
The key dangling so sharp
one; just one, I say
but my jailer disagrees
one more, he taunts
you know you want to, he laughs
handcuffs line my wrists; stained red
never to be broken
looking at whats left of my prison
my jailer leaves
and moves on looking for the next criminal
You are caught in this jail of which
I have built for one such as you;
spiked handcuffs made of solid lines,
iron bars wrought with poetry.
You shall never elude me as
you are caught in this jail of which
that binds you to a sheet of white
with only barbwire, words, and prose.
police are coming,
and we are high and drunk,
again, with **** in our
pockets and handcuffs on
our ****** wrists,
but i still love you.
— The End —