what the fuck are we doing here?
the hate
the violence
the silence
the fear
single cells tearing away the life
through pain
through menace
through penance
through strife
life doesn't get any easier
and we can't help ourselves
to the directions we steer
and the decisions we delve
what is it about suffering
that turns us on;
some portion of the ego
that proves someone else wrong?
it's a never ending battle with
who we are
and who they are-
and to prove it,
we carry the scars-
little battle cries from the flesh,
tepid memories of what we've endured
and most of the wounds are fresh
to make our histories assured
it's all where we've been
and rarely of where we're going
every single transgression and sin
emblazoned through the blood
found flowing
from taut flesh
and the bone that pokes through
to remind us
of the very things that we do
to make life worth living
but when the living is through
what was it that made
the very essence of you?
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