I am Andrew Hopkins Guthrie. To my namesake: Sto Pro Veritate.
All that follows is true. Believe me? Up to you.
hurt with glee, tackled by two,
subdued by 3, skin melting glue,
scar on my knee, knife at my throat,
mind ground open, cut by a boat,
stabbed with a pen, punched in the face
a punctured lip, a permanent stain,
teeth snapped ripped, inescapable pain,
beast barked bit: domination
choker’s eye’s elated: invigoration
Seniors, sadists, and slicers, all sicken me.
I enlightened myself a moral epiphany.
I’ve traveled the maze of insanity,
hung ’till the brink of death,
head rush relinquished humanity,
willed vomit abate my breath,
rode with waves of salty oceans,
curled shores to frothy land,
seaweed stunk beside emotions,
apathy dried caked in sand,
cleaned by steaming frigid rain,
in a thrashing flashing wonder:
pulled up with groaning pain,
in white illuminating lightning,
descended claps of thunder.
I. Am. Frightening.
From the hole of depression: I climbed the pits of despair. In tortured ascension knew: Life. Is. Not. Fair.
I’ve sung to strangers, and danced for hundreds watching in the crowd, no embarrassment dangers, for I am proud.
Tweak’s adaptive. Your attack affective as your conviction. If chinked, my armor’s reactive, do you purpose an affliction…?
Listen for captured wind, and see the phoenix there. Feel the heat of dragon’s breath, and smell the burning air.
Then you’ll know my power: taste your fear.