Why all this talk of death and destruction,
When whats right is to live this life?
Living is seemingly defined by dysfunction,
None goes through life without strife.
I lay the blame,
For all the pain,
in the monsters palms.
On my sleeve my heart,
To be torn apart,
By hands violently asking for alms.
These hands, I see, connected,
To pairs of gangly arms.
I cant be resurrected,
If they choose to do me harm.