sinful self-indulgence i've built me up a penitence, a karma defecit, a giddy height from which i know that i will fall, punished for my betrayal. self-respect i'll never get, i know i'm sick and yet my intentions are only pure & clean, but soiled by the me i've been and am, my dirty dripping hands, steeped in blood bled by the damned, wounded by the cut and thrust of battle which i feel i must fight on alone, and then disown, insisting that i never fought, white in deed and every thought. why try these wretched lies for size when every sense but ears and eyes decries their being said, bemoans the multitudes of dead, more plentiful than grains of sand and all of them killed by my hand. Make Love Not War! there's so much more in battles fought by two i betray myself in what i do but worse i betray you
