Strife

Drag the blade, draw the blood.

Never know how much is fogged.

Useless felt, never better,

Here it is, finely scattered:

From one and all, to none it is;

I really can’t feel this.

A moment’s notice inside the heart,

What gives the emotional unstart.

Cuz I drag the blade across the wrist,

The drawn hot blood dribbles adrift.

Unknown, not cared, who knows:

Not here.

Feeling as such is not that weird,

For I live with it numb.

Never to feel the rising sun.

Sinless pride and witless lies,

What else to do, but cry.