| Misanthropic Musings I thrive on being a permanet paradox - mournfully content, painfully optimistic.
It keeps my feet on the ground and my head in the clouds.
Trust no one - you're alone, trust everyone and you end up in the mud.
The harsh wind stings the tears on my face.
The blood swelling on my skin was painted by your fist.
I must admit I do love provoking a reaction from your shallow minds.
You can tell from my broken skin that I don't think like you do.
I see the world's weight bear down on your thin shoulders.
As much as I try I cannot purge this.
The night is home to tears.
I lie still in the soapy water, calmly watching my wrists soak a pretty crimson colour.
Before I'm finished saying these words we will be made of bullets.
Metal means nothing to me when I look inside of your eyes.
Pitholes of lead.
Modelled from misanthrope clay.
The night will crawl in like starry spiders.
Mummy did you notice my cherry imbrued arms? | 
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