Cutting and the Soul

The press of the steel,
To see if I still feel,
The twisting of the wires,
With these bloody pliers,
Entwining the barbs with flesh,
Forming a steely bleeding mesh,
Hooks pull upon the skin,
Pulling up into bleeding crests as a fin,
Black blood congealing around the lips,
As the swallowed razor slips,
Deep into the soul,
Spilling blood black as coal.
Slow flows drip from the shivs,
Forced into self to relive,
In body the pains of mind,
To reveal to eyes blind,
What is hidden inside,
That as this blades slide,
Again and again,
Into this flesh of men,
Leaving faint lines,
First crimson like wines,
Later white and stark,
A permanent mark,
But these wounds are not, really,
On my flesh and body, to see,
But inside my being,
In the mind and feeling,
These hooks are but the bait,
Strung out by the twister of fate,
To mock us who would achieve,
Anything, or would dare to believe,
The razor is inside "the prize",
A nasty death dealing surprise,
The barbed wire entwining,
Is our self wrought woes and repining,
And all simply because we do not receive,
The one thing in which we might truly believe.