Occam’s razor

you said the sharpest path
is the simplest one
shave away the excess
strip the noise to bone
til only truth remains

but truth never stays still
it paces in the corner of my room
drags me outa sleep at 3 a.m.
with my father’s breath
still hot on my neck
a dream pressin me down
a voice that knows too well
how to split me open
there’s no clean edge there
just whiskey shadows
and a man who won’t die right

and the monster
he doesn’t wait
he lives in me
not guest
not curse
but marrow
the part that grins when rage boils over
the part that claws thru my skin
whenever I’m pushed too far
he loves the chaos
the sound of shatterin
the way blood can feel like proof

Occam…
you never stood in a kitchen
while the rest of the world sleeps
sweat and shadows thick in the air
watchin your blade tremble in my hand
like it could carve sense
outa blood and inheritance
you never heard a heart stutter
the way mine does
in half broken keys and war cries
never knew rage so fuckin precise
it wears the mask of order
while tearin the goddamn house down
brick by brick by brick

simplicity is a lie
they told me my rage was just chemical
my ache just inherited
my love just illusion
my shadows just trauma
I should’ve outgrown
just alcoholism
just bipolar
just imbalance
sharp little cuts
easy explanations
to cauterize wounds
still spillin over decades later
but the pulse won’t come clean
it won’t collapse into one cause
and every cut creates more mouths
more shadows
more truth
too jagged to shave away

and that’s where truth fuckin lies
not the clean edge of the blade
but in the refusal of the wound
to just stop fuckin singin
even if you shave close enough
you’ll find my bones screamin
my blood hummin in broken chords
my chaos grinnin thru teeth

so go on
put your razor to my throat
tell me again bout simplicity…
while the monster wrings a cacophony
from the keys
while the poet scribbles blood into stanzas
while the monster laughs at the chaos
while the poet begs to name it
both of us tangled in the same song
arguin thru my teeth
til I am nothin
but wounds
that Occam pretends are simple truths