You harness what was once a musical note used in repetition to create a tune known gloriously across this land and you rescind its meaning with your twisted design,
Wash those hands but know they can never truly be clean,
For you are just a stain of a human being,
Rot you will in the hole of damnation,
Fornicated by all those inside,
Plundered and killed for the pathetic little man you are,
A protector you should have been,
Not the violator you became,
Just be thankful for what little time you have,
For it it was me who was standing before you casting judgement,
You would surely be no more than a bitter memory,
Cast into whatever hells exist after this,
Not being favoured for the things you did beyond your sins,
For a sin,
Is a sin no matter what colour it’s painted!
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Published by Matthew Tonks
People are surprised when reading Matthew’s stories that he’s a sane forty something year old, happily married, father of one, employed full time, who dreams of dark disturbing things that any sane person would never even contemplate thinking of. But it's true, he’s toyed with writing for most of his adult life, but has always found the peg a writer must fit into is not the shape he wished to be. His writing can be described as lamenting, long, concussive (yes it smashes you in the head), compulsive, and stuffed with rhythmic communication and violence, let’s not forget the violence. His own opinion on his writing is this, “You see, I don't just want the words to seep into your mind, but into your soul, showing you images of blood and beauty through, volatile language, violence, sex, love and sin. My muse takes different shapes, and every now and then you can see her shining her wicked smile in some of my stories, tempting you with her promises, but ripping your heart out instead.”
So have a look, and take a seat in my wayward ride, as you join me while I purge through, this twisted road of madness.
View all posts by Matthew Tonks
