Flayed

Posted: November 16, 2014 in Poems, The Troubled Scribe's Scribbles
Cut off my fingers and toes, then feed them to the crows.
They watched as I beat my bloody stumps against the concrete block and still they wouldn’t budge.
They would just sit on plaid lawn chairs continuing to talk.
They peeled the skin from my bones and nailed it on the living room wall in their home.
All the guests will point and laugh at the flaws exposed.
They will sew me back up, innards and all, that they kept in warm jars.
Then we’ll hold hands in public and hug, everyone will laugh and smile because the world loves drugs.
After the show they’ll drag me back behind closed doors,  stab me in the kidneys and flay me once more.
This world has become one big lie, in which liars and cheats seem to revel in the sky.
As us poor beggars crawl in our filth, for being polite and staying in line.
I’d rather be flayed alive.
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