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This is the anger I resolve to take
this is the aggression I feel at his wake
this is the soul my fury does quake
here is the witness to his own mistake

What is it like to be jarred on display?
like a green pig fetus which once explored is considered explained
where is the depth of person where someone like me hopes to exist
yet is reflected upon by the history he wants not to dismiss
it is not what makes us
there are no words to make you understand
where we stand, as tall as we were low when we were brought down

The memories are whispers lost in the screams
the silent callings, abruptly cut off before someone, anyone
would be able to hear

Yes we all choose to make ourselves alone under such circumstances
who would truly listen, after all
would we not be the fools
would we not be expected to choose otherwise
when otherwise is entirely not an option
or so it seems, as we are convinced and isolated at the time

Trapped! chewing off my own leg in order to escape
gnawing at my flesh and soul
losing a part of myself, without which, it is difficult to walk
And through all of this, he has no notice
my torturer
And through all of this, I am the one to blame
And through all of this, I am the one to sacrifice and lose
and carry forever that which he has created

But this world is my description
this is my anger, now
it feels good to be angry
it feels passionate and true
it feels so damn good
my attachment to the matter has become something else
a method, a myth, a purpose
or perhaps, simply just another leg