clue

 
corrupt a thought and make it bleed
it is the way of the pen to cut even the tongue of it's author
cunted grief swallows the maddening tell

I seek asylum in my words
but sometimes they are razor sharp
cutting me to my marrow

spin the verse until she cries for you
it will be so in time
sigh the truth is bitter
I swallow it down still it comes up, my word bile

the problem is honesty
brutalities victim of need
it demands a sacrifice
everyday a new initiate in its service

I look for my face in my writings
I find I am mad