Wounds

A criticism of the modern world.

I stare at my screen through a broken lens. 

Surrounded by the shards of things i loved.

There is not a cure for the tortured soul.

Shattered from the times they were pushed and shoved.

All you can do is admire their wounds.

From all the hate comes such beautiful things.

Pouring out from all the cracks in their skin. 

It is the only thing that we have left.

After you've been defeated you can't win.

It is our blood that we are writing with.

It is dripping from our cuts anyway.

This is me now, a piece of my soul.

Don't worry, you can keep it any day.