A savage cut; a junta’s coup
Pariah skin: rouge blanc et bleu
In formal rhyme I aim to grasp
The nature of your skittish acts
As anarchy structures your lies
Does concrete reconstruct your mind:
Some fear of something tender, warm
Some need to hide in niches torn
Like graphic filmic heights of pain
Or DIY thrash lore’s domain:
A place with trauma center stage
Where battered hearts’ strength vents its rage
But each bold venture pioneered
Gets washed by mainstreams, disappeared
And those who made their sole vocation
To voice their aching isolation
Eventually must transcend darkness
Or else, alone, must meet what’s hardest.
I guess the caution that I speak
Is meant to guess at what you seek
And from that guess, extend a hand
A way to say I understand.
An honest friendship’s not a gun
You honestly don’t have to run.
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