Suck your own truth.

As you climb face-first down the lines of my pages, see all kinds of fucked up shit. There, in the dark present moment, a real truth can be overwhelming. Just you and the slobbering, evil-eyed, bloody-clawed monster staring at you over a few delicate strokes of my pen.

Dare you continue? Do you venture forward, shuffling with arms outstretched, hoping against hope to survive this shit. Atrocities wait. Tragedies bait. Pain and suffering glance at each other, preparing to pounce on your unprotected neck.

‘Ow,’ say you and the truth is on you. There’s pain in your everywhere as it begins biting and ripping. Why can’t you fight back? Why won’t you move? You’re transfixed like Christ on the cross, nailed to the page with 3 ballpoint pens, pierced in the side by my subconscious spear, sporting a crown of black ink.