The Hardcore Beating

((A late night, and a random thought. Written quickly in the passion of the moment, I think you will be able to tell from the spelling, and grammar. Not to mention overall quality.))

A cold satire is the world of late,
assassin's cunning with your heart of hate.
Forever abused on the wake of pain
when light and dark cannot hide my shame.

I used to walk with head held high
instead of whimpering submissively when I cry
A heavy hand used to be a called a tap
when a hardcore beating was considered a slap

Oh! I feel the darkness take my soul
painting my day blacker than charcoal
I wish I could have escaped from you then
but I keep going back, time and time again.

I think it is time, I break out
this , time to run and time to shout
I must retain the will to sever
this horrid man from me forever

but the cold lies sink in
I know that this battle a woman cannot win
for this situation is beyond my own control
these bruises, and scars, take their toll

painted purple from the latest attack
and i know i must fight to get myself back
i dawn a new mask for the world to see
where heavy hands cannot hurt me.

but am I really free?