What it is.
my left is perfectly straight, propped up unhealthily agaisnt a bar of metal.
My right moves with a percision that scares my tear filled eyes.
Haunting, addicting. Craving.
The sun is bright- so my glasses tint. The night is dark, and thus I move.
I discard chains and cuffs for flesh and blood-
The only metal needed is that to puncture the layers and layers
that hold from me what I require.
What it is.
Idly praticing weapons of death
wondering who will suffer tonight.
My moods determining who lives- who survives.
elbows shoot out with blurring speed, palms going to the jaw of the air.
A spin- a kick, two kicks- and I fall. I recover with hands hitting the cement floor.
My legs kick out, taking out the ankles of the air- the air lost. I won.
I stand up, and suckle on my bloody greying fingers- stone and blood mixing.
Haunting, addicting. Craving.
What it is.
Time is spent no matter what the inflation of the day. Others are short of it, others have all the time in the world.
Screams come from within- from lust, pain, lustful pain. Use them accordingly.
Success is measured in blood. Yours- hers, or your enemy's.
Worth is measured in what you do with not your life- but with the life of her, or your enemy's.
Her life is your currency. Spend it well. Your enemy's life is your end. Respect it.
What it is.
