During the days I don’t eat very much, don’t feel very much and don’t I
care very much.
But when the smiling man in the moon pops his head above the hills I take my
razor off the shelf and I give him a late night show to view.
I know it’s wrong but I slice my legs like the butchers do to the cattle’s
hides, until they bleed, until I’m satisfied.
A sharpened sled pulled over flattened planes leaving a horrible rut in the
hidden soil.
I gaze down on my newly raw limbs, I’m punished for my horrible sins and I
think to myself how beautiful the rivers of Red run.

*not a good format I know, definatly not traditional*
 
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