Now I will write my secrets in my skin.

A bleeding hope displayed for all to see;

Where innocent, sweet flesh once used to be,

Is smeared with tales of things that might have been;

A farmer tills this land of hurtful sin

And scars are left for all eternity:
My words will cover every inch of me

And blood will flow until my heart wears thin.

Then shall I rest, my self a work of art,

With all my sorrows, troubles, joys and lust

Adorning my brownèd suit with deep disgust.

And finally I’d stab into my heart

In tangible despair, and then, at last,

I’ll be at peace—thus from this world I part.


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