28

I set out to feed a family

Became a slaughterhouse instead

Set out to help the living

Now I cater to the dead

Butcher blades and chopping blocks

And my hands are always red.

All these inconsistencies

This making into pharisees 

Of everyone who disagrees

This makes no sense to me.

We're all made of energy

A strangely surging synergy

We're all contained infinities

That I have severed here

So sincerely insincere.

What makes a man? What have I done?

Why can't I be another one?

All these thoughts trip through

And none of them are true

And yet all of them are

My hands the whitened scars

Of too long with these blades

Of years lived in the shade

So many years afraid

Why can't you understand

That I don't know who I am?