An unhinged take on satisfaction, tainted with red.

“I see red... I am tired and worn; Alone and defenseless; Accepting my fate seemed quite effortless; I see red... Magically as it seemed, The river of scarlet began to cease; It crept back: Back into the wounds that I've sustained. Back into the scars caused by me and others, what difference does it make? Back into the crevices of my skin that I've loathed and hoped to purge.. Back within me; the greatest enemy there is to face... And I've ceased to see red... Except for the stains on my hands, They chose to remain and to remind: Of times of hatred, envy, jealousy, you name it... A brutal holocaust of my making... Of times where I've hated my own existence... With the red on my fingertips, I drew myself a smile, So viciously scarlet, it stayed vivid for half a mile, I wanted it to tell tales of how far I've come, I wanted it to show the mundane, the man that I've become... So let what remains of the red, hold its ground.. Let the red have the power to make my stories sound…”