Evil course, good cause.

I asked him to paint the sky black and the stars navy.
He said to me, why Son? 
I said because, I want people to know that I'm a wounded animal, my anger is hovering over the earth for vengeance and that my spirit has turned grey.
I am yearning for revenge and my soul has turned violet, it's going to devour the wicked. 
My eyes should be lensed with blood clot, so that they understand how long this pain has been going, nail my fingers with the devil's hook so I can be able to dig graves of the evil, bad deeds shall never go unpunished, so call me the rebellion son.

Occupy my ears with the loudest, dark screams.
I want to feel the fear in my brother's genes as I look at him, I want to see his soul jumping up and down his body looking for an exit as it runs from me.
Make my skin see-through, let my father see the blood running in my veins and experience the increase in speed so he understands that I'm getting furious indeed.
Slay my chest out and let my mom see the bones, the lungs but most of all the heart.
Throw it down before her but don't let it stop the pumps, because I want her to know the desperate need to her comfort and protection as my guard.

Oh, my poor soul, I give it to you, you spirit of the North; Wreck it until I sell it to the devil, because he can have it but he can never have my spirit.
Give me long teeth, I want to bite off the left ear from my sister; let me rip it all out and replace it will a plaster so that next time I speak to her about how hurt I am, she listens.
I want to kill and rip the head off from those that bullied me, drink their blood and spit it in the dirt pit where the national municipality dumps sewage.
But that's my soul that I sold, not the spirit.

I'm not going to kill or hate, I'm not going to be angry or hang myself, I'm not going to lock myself in a prison of grieving on my sorrows while the perpetrators don't give the least care, my poems are already doing that for me.
Although I want to see my brother in a wheel chair so that he can't hurt me no more, I'm not the one who's going to do that.
His blood will spill from the ink of my pen and fall on the lands of my paper, stay in a morgue of my heart and be locked in the freezer of my fans, as they chant on my recital and so shall be the song of his casket dropping his ash to the ashes, then get buried on the list of poems that I ever wrote.