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Saturday, March 5, 2005
lacerate
I'm a surgeon as well, but my scalpel is words. I don't have a PHD at it yet. I still have a ways to go. I'm not afraid to carve you up. I aim for the heart, but I end up cutting it open, making it bleed all over the place. Sometimes I take your brain out and place your heart where you brain is and your brain where your heart is. Sometimes I go into secret places of you that you yourself never knew. I am crude at my art. I probe around with a dull scalpel that needs to be sharpened. I touch you with nervous, naive hands. From what I can do now with just my words, once I mature at my art I will be unstoppable. Your blood is on my hands, your pain is in my head. This is the reader and the writer becoming one. This is the endless sacrifice. It trickles from my hands to the hard floor in a shallow pool. Look in and see a reflection of you.
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