Late To The Party

Better People To Leave On Read

as good a reason

mad's world

all-american bitch!

Scatterbrain

You Are Bad

Love Me Not

-Intro-
The edge keeps quiet; I listen when it breathes.  
I train with my ghosts — we move inside the grief. 

Kata in the mirror, I practice with the void, precise,  
Silence is my sparring partner, every form a sacrifice.  
Shaolin slow, looped breath, clockwork in my ribs,  
I trace the same cut twice until the numbness lives.  
Iaido flash—unsheathe, fold the flash back in,  
Memory sharpens metal; regret becomes the skin.  
Syllable whetstone, I hone the hurt to a line,  
Words edge like weapons — they nick and they refine.  
Isolation’s posture: chest held, shoulders tense,  
I move to keep the quiet from eating up the sense. 

Is the battle out there, or the war beneath my ribs?  
Am I swinging at a phantom or the silence that lives? 

-Chorus-
On the bitter edge I keep the form, weathered and thin,  
I cut into the quiet, feel the echo under skin.  
This is private combat — the enemy is the ache,  
I move through the motions so the fracture won’t awake.  
On the bitter edge, sharpened by the hush,  
I am both blade and bruise, the wound I clutch. 

Footwork tight — step, pivot, withdraw into the chest,  
Wing chun pressure on the pulse where all the questions rest.  
Muay boran breath, knees fold the weight of thought,  
I clinch the quiet close until the quiet’s overwrought.  
Chain-rhyme the ache, triple-time the grief’s refrain,  
Each bar a breathing technique — inhale, hold, sustain.  
Capoeira spin inward, I circle on one seam,  
My world contracts to motions like a cold and private dream.  
Qigong hush — I sink the qi, collect the thin,  
I practice staying steady while the inside caves in.

This is not a show; it’s ritual — a litany at night,  
I polish the same sorrow till the edges bite.  
Disciple of my own decline, I bow inside my chest,  
The lineage of loneliness pulled taut across my breath. 

Iaijutsu instant — words unsheathe, slash the air, split sound,  
Rapid riffs cut clean, consonants clamp, wounds unbound.  
Staccato sorrow, machine-gun metre, grief in microbursts,  
I stitch syllables to silence, stitch the universe to thirst.  
Pivot-pressure, pressure-pivot — friction feeds the flame,  
My ribs a metronome of loss, I drum a private name.  
Wire-wire wordplay, wired through vein and vein,  
Each phrase a filament that hums with tiny pain.  
Bitter-edge humming, filament frays into light,  
I forge a fortress from the ache that keeps me up at night.  
Double-time devotion, devotion to the solo art,  
Mastering the moves that keep the hollow quiet in my heart. 

-Chorus-
On the bitter edge I keep the form, weathered and thin,  
I cut into the quiet, feel the echo under skin.  
This is private combat — the enemy is the ache,  
I move through the motions so the fracture won’t awake.  
On the bitter edge, sharpened by the hush,  
I am both blade and bruise, the wound I clutch. 

-Outro-  
Door shut, lights low — I practice with the dark.  
The bitter edge is company; it knows the shape of scars.

Late To The Party

Emei

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Cocola^^

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