I've never seen raw gold,

They say it's ugly – like my words.

Unpolished, brutal truth

That cuts deep and clean.

My writing is a blade

Forged in midnight thoughts,

Edge gleaming with fresh wounds,

Stories dripping crimson.

Society craves mirrors,

Not knives that show their scars.

They want polished surfaces

To see their smiling lies.

Like gold in muddy streams,

My thoughts lie rough, uncut.

Most pass by, unseeing –

Only miners know their worth.

From chaos-dreams they come,

Wild things that make me laugh,

Dancing on paper's edge

Until my fingers bleed.

I shape them, smooth them,

Dip their teeth in sugar,

Wrap their razor truths

In silk and sequins.

Now they sparkle pretty,

These diamond-polished lines,

But underneath the glitter

The blade still thirsts for blood.

Let them praise the shimmer,

The few who dare to read

Past ribbons, past the frosting,

Will taste the metal underneath.