Lashing out is easy.
The pain and shame of losing your name to an adversarial game of blame, trepid fuel of the wretched sets our world aflame.
But what if I, was the problem the whole time?
That’s when the ground will open wide, the tide of a thousand lies you helped abide, consumes you. So, you hide behind the landslide of nitrous-oxide, the only way you can still breathe.
Yeah, so what if I, was the problem the whole time?
A sublime bind of misery’s line, begrimes the climb to anything real. Easy to die and easy to cry, easy to fault the man to your left for living where the sun shines, while you feign war-time-crimes; a pantomime that’s blind.
Maybe, the whole time, I was the problem; stepping up is hard.
Strength isn’t easy.