It is like the biting into the core
of a cold,chilled lemon, the realization
leaving its memory to taste like a deep, salty, sore.
It holds and grabs, a needle piercing deeply against
your skin, my skin
the sweet dark chocolate,
releasing pain that sounds like the shattering
It puncures your mind like a bullet does to a can
The view of your image in
light, like the bitter smoke...leaving a society's pinching hole, a clan
A clique of holes too scary to fill, 'cause to try means to fall
with no one on the other side to even watch you.
Sour it is, linger its job,
It...it is my sorrow, my image, my mind, the media and you
huring the soul, my soul.