The opposite of tender is the grinding cough of a war veteran with lung cancer

Ears are scraped violently by the greasy iron scraps it sprays out...

At the edge of silver pours out a hardening pool of blood the ungrateful dance in.

Mocking the powerful fountains, glazed in scars of fanaticism and brilliance...  

If you turn hope on high, you’ll see yourself injecting melted plastic your arms.

Trying your hardest to cope with your inevitable failures.

At the center of boredom is a stagnant gray pit seething with silent still slugs.

You can tell they want to move but don’t care enough, the sound of their eyes tells you everything…

The swirl of loneliness sounds like a canyon spilling Helen Keller’s screams.

It’s impossible to tell if helping her is against the big black law…

The hiding place of rain shivers underneath the loud crackle of a sandy hill.

Noses there are sacrificed to the stench of disingenuous parasites...  

The antonym of pink drives men into foreign lands where they feast on pain and chisel liberty.

It is so bright you can’t see it in the morning when the smell of hugs fills the air...

If you look underneath peace, you might hear cackling leeches stealing the succulent reds and oranges of empires.

Their men are immobilized by the rainbows of pleasure and fake flashing lights being poured in their skulls…

When you toss sadness to the wind, it returns as a bitter edible powder, swelling your arms like a red bee sting.

It helps you to feel the thick soupy goblins of intimidation but burns like disappointment...