It is only motivation and creation when dearest Ares ignites your will and another's.
The tune of violence is boisterous and arrogant, so you profess.
Yet you misunderstand.
The unescapable threat is means, means makes you move.
Swords pierced into my flesh, while I barely shake out agonizing groans.
I was genuflect before death, praying for it to kill me.
Though, I lived.
From will.
With weapons directed at my frame,
The strength of misery overpowering me with gloom, the pain scorching through my abdomen twisting speedily prompting me to seek darkness.
Darkness, I allowed only to taste me.
And so, I poured into my delusions, scribbled in my arts, because this will not be interchangeable with the fierce violence I receive.
I will not create from the effects of injustice, of ignorance, of neglect and speak with such tongue as to wish it.
I won't spin myself around to the devilish counterpart of a god in my head.
To feel confident in bruised words, and inflated ego.
I am not that weak.
