Blindfolded in the center ring

The crowd wants blood

Everything forgotten
to pandemonium

The bell rings

The round begins

If nothing else
one thing is certain

We're in for the fight
of our lives

I ran down the shore
as the knifes crested near me,
               never reaching the shore
that I stood upon.

For I don't want to drown,
          I want to breath.
crimson stillness isn't my
                                   sunset..

So I run, out of breath..
  but the shore line is further now..

No waves will wash over me this day..

rivers of dust
ninetynine cents
beastly fightin' wit
glowing nails
ain't no fakirs it is bloodshed
fakers neither knuckles bloodred

feel verse seven: just a bloodbath

a face of stone and bloodred eyes
he is not dumb, he is not wise
a vampire, dressed in black attire
ruler of the world, lobby boss, a rock

a fierce narcissist being hurt
even by your friendliest words
knife-like fingernails, teeth spiky
he slits you up, devours your heart

cannibal lecter style for real
he just does not know how to feel
psychopathic soul, a tall goon
ruling from a bone-made throne

you can not make a deal with him:
he's like a bank and always wins
your family is dead my friend
today is your turn: you will burn

barbeque-images, intestines
human-scented steak with bloodshakes
festival of gore, you creature
since you are the vampire's feature

humans come, humans go, you know?
a vampire does not bother
he will tear your body apart
to carve a poem into your flesh

What is violence?

I don't do it, if I do –


I quickly forget.

Remembering those that are keeping it all together whilst being screamed at, humiliated, insulted, offended and hurt.

Those who feel like screaming but holding the meltdown in check.

Those who are frustrated and trapped and killing somebody seemed the best option but just do not have the right state of mind.

Those whom in the ugly face of violence, are still fighting for their right to freedom of choice.

Freedom for a right to live equally because, life has dealt them a hard hand. A right to be who they dream to be.

Those that are being mistaken for their tears as mere weakness.

Those that have lost their spirit to fight but are hoping-still.
Those who are in their lowest now but still faithful and pressing on despite everything.

Those that feel the need to cry but had to smile instead.
Those who live within their means but wish there could have been more or be more because of another brother, sister, relative in need.

Those who put every one elses need ahead of their own.

Lest we forget, you are remembered today.

Look lady, do I look bovver'd it's botched?
You wanted bespoke and that’s just what you got.  
I alreddy told ya, I’m chock-a-block with jobs,
so this the best of a very bad job.

Now, fair enough, it might look bog standard,
but you must remember, it was already cack-‘anded,
so I'd thank you for shutting your gob
with all your talk of you bein' robbed.  

Look, your ladyship, you might well be miffed,
but I’m sure you can make do with a little skew-wiffed,
so ‘and over the readies and make it swift -
I’ll walk away and we’ll call it quits.  

You know me and my rep round this manor,
if you don’t cough up I know a right tasty geezer
who will breeze over ‘ere and wrap each of his fingers
round a whole lot more than your French wind-ders.

- That’s a lot better, you’ve got a nice gaff
and I’m sure neither of us want all of the faff
that goes with ‘ard feelings and still ‘arder stares
through broken front wind-ders and costly repairs.

You know what I mean?