The Dunbar paper
Embalmed...
Past the point of cold hearted...
All organs removed
So unsoothing in the darkness,
One too many friendly butcher knifes
To the back of one who once
was so full of life
This is what he couldn't write,
And couldn't speak...but it kept his spirit wincing,
Clenching in pain drenched in the rain
The shame wrenching his brain
No comprehension for this childhood lynching
Hanging gasping as a man still no release
Of the tension,
What's the fucking fighting and writhing for?
Embrace the rope...let it and your kneck elope
Put an end to the joke,
Why the clinging to the meaningless...thoughtful things
Others never seemed to get
Short end of the stick forever deemed to pick,
And as the fingertips
Redeemed the gift
To write
The tree equipped
With me against
My life
Received the gift
Of sight...
To see me in the pain
Of ving rhames in rosewood,
The future paper needs the ink
To hurt soooo good.
