Violets In My Hand
This is a story about a man
A short story about the violence in his hand
On automatic trigger
He ainâ"š¬â"ž¢t used to taking shit
So no oneâ"š¬â"ž¢s giving it
And his egoâ"š¬â"ž¢s getting bigger
Heâ"š¬â"ž¢s scarred by his own civil war
Hate â"š¬" he hurts the ones he hates
He hurts the ones he loves and donâ"š¬â"ž¢t care for
The reaper sleeps on his floor
Violence, violence in his hand
As a child he slept on rainy roofs
Safe from his fatherâ"š¬â"ž¢s cloven hooves
And his motherâ"š¬â"ž¢s eyes of fire
They never figured out what it all meant
The fear of descent
So, rising from the pyre and the smoke
Redeemingly soaked by the rain
To wash away the pain
To loosen up the strain upon his mind
He still keeps it inside
Violence, violence in his hands