Pieces of me on the altar of the Pathological GodMature

It is the beauty of being battered,

I'd rather toss my loss across the Hudson,

Turn an angry eye to the sky and salute the drone I spy,

Goose-step through the grit and grime,

Defiance is the crimson color of my crime,

Black check on Orwell's shit list,

I raise my fists, bright shackles decorate my wrists

Lubricated with blood, slipping over hands,

Cold freedom through suicide.

The End

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