Practice makes Perfect (meh)

You may be surprised
that I still find the time
To practice for an end.

That each time I do
my aim still improves.
I can cut deeper.

Not meant to convince
In a literal sense
that I’m drawing real blood.

A personal attack
aiming to never come back
To life as we know it.

I know my weakness
Exploitable in ways like this.
Death keeps her door cracked.

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Filed under poem, poetry, writing

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