As bright as any flame, in any game by any name blood stains and is not sweet. Such beauty red when it is freash, then brown like rotted meat. Is there a reason razor blades so like to reveal this deceit? Do hands destroy fields of flesh so pure out of vain conceit?
What ugly man will take in hand a steel saviour sharp? To take apart God’s twisted art to reveal its’ dead heart? Do scars make excuse for life’s abuse and make a case to preach? “SEE THIS UGLY SCAR, IT’S THE REASON FOR THE UGLINESS YOU SEE!!!!!!!!”
So adorn your flesh with cuts to cleft the once fair canvas clean. Make it ugly, make it rough, make it broken and mean. Make your face a crossed over terrain of all life’s abuses, of all life’s sick pain. Make torment the reason, make scars the excuse. Now ugly is your fault, not for the world to choose.
Look into a mirror at the horrors you’ve done. This world wants to call you ugly? Well, now YOU have won. No one can hurt you if you do it yourself. Cut lines to define the ugly feelings you’ve felt. Cut razor fields open into skin white with shame. Cut images of heartbreak, hell, cut in her name. Just never allow this world to make you ashamed. Shame is for you to offer, create, and claim.
One further step now…life see you dead? Take hold of the razor and give horror instead. For it’s not for the ugly to hold a proud head. So offer the world an excuse of scab red.