Tiptoe up to your conscience.
Does it whisper or scream?
Is there a rough callous where love used to be?
Prod it.
Tell me, does it hurt?
They say you're an unfeeling monster.
I beg of you, prove them wrong.
You fight,
You kill yourself on a battlefield
For what?
Blood oozes from an aching heart,
And all you do is stare.
Touch your conscience.
Stroke it.
Does it shudder under the weight of your guilt?
Why am I the only innocent,
And yet the only accused?
Bloodthirsty, unfeeling,
What does it matter?
When your soul touches mine,
I can feel the heartbeat.
Prove them wrong.