the bleating of the sheep.
echoing out of your wrists.
allowing the times to define you alone.
lacerations in the name of sorrow
or at least thats what you say.
but your just doing as they want you to.
your just keeping up with the times.
like some outward cry.
yet all your yelling is "im just like the crowd"
and the spirits dance on the edge of your knife.
and the world laughs at your ignorance.
but oh poor you.
your life is so bad.
right?
 
Copyright © djamoeba, All Rights Reserved