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.