Wars.

Shin stabbing, rip apart

the pieces of the flesh. 

A rough-headed roustabout 

who's sure to leave a mess. 

What you could do wasn't good enough,

you left it half-finished, now it's ended. 

Broken in two like a cigarette, alone 

with the torment you have tendered .

I mistook pity for love -

love for myself, not another.

Washing skin with trickling blood,

I stopped accepting the other.

Welding on the steel to the bone,

the strap came down and made me quite stroppy.

Answering, these ten questions of hurt

the voice that responds to me seems kind of curt

and all of this mired in your filth and your dirt...

 I couldn't walk for a year or two... I couldn't see...