Your hurt, hurts.



You’re not even dead yet,
And the sorrow of a Duduk flute plays the genocide.
The mutilation your life caused,
A love of a father so misplaced.
Something generations deep,
Keep it in the family, it’s tradition.
The sorrow belts through speakers all day,
Artificial sound, for artificial love for artificial death.
If the flute were here with me,
I would be stricken with grief,
Torn clothes naked into the streets.
Where the extremes of extremes meet,
Obliterated, reconciled, refined, rewound.
Found, unsound, set free and bound.
Asleep, awake for who’s sake, who’s sake?
Feed me, clothe me, buy me, forget me.
You want me to feel you now, you want me to see.
Bathe in your wallow, tick off your misery.
Swallow your hurt, make it a part of me.
You left me dry all this time, soil just wont soften
Hurt is a fist full of clay, over your coffin.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s