Nov 2017
I am an anorexic with a gluttonous mouth for bad table manners and my own feet.
I relate to 364 licks to the center of the tootsie pop to only find out it was just dirt and high fructose corn syrup.
Like my personality it is a disappointment. Maybe the world would of been better to let this one go.
C'est la vie my family, whom leaves me at the table with a cold meal I refuse to acknowledge as food.
My father's own teachings red on my face and my mother's lessons bleeding from my ears. Welcome to church today we will be eating the lord.
Cause I feel something must fill me more than nihilism which by nature fills me with nothing but more space for my lack of motivation and self deprecating.
I need to be nothing so I must eat just that.
I want to save someone so they can eat me one day.
If I gave myself up to be eaten on Sunday's due to lack of interest in feeding myself,
I'll put a spin on my suicide and say its for my followers.
I wonder what I would taste like.
Arrogantly I'll claim myself as zesty a flavor of Passover dinner or just Christ. I can picture the burning cross on the sauce bottle.
I'd eat it.
But I may have consumed so much of Christ's body and blood, I must be what I eat.
I wanna be the devil in deserts of my passions.
The fats that I was told not to indulge just for me to steal and hide under my grandmother's shadow without shame as did Lucifer.
"For my sake", she would say,
Force fed in line to ingest the breast and white meat of Jesus with no seasoning. Just gross.
That token of him a flake disk ******* of Bible versus and boxed wine, the same meal to have fed a congregation.
A congregation that must have starved and ate each other to really live, that's probably how we have Catholicism.
My halo childhood head would crave the cheap red dry and knew what the point was to drink his veins and get drunk off of me.
I was fed not my saviors life but my-self lie, placed into my mouth as a tasteless disciple, cannibalizing my identity for salvation.
"Save me", is a phrase I never said,
Cause I thought I was made in his image.
"Feed me", was more like it.
as I chomped on my fingertips and hair.
So I conclude I must be passover for I have been eating myself.
And I am not zesty.
I'm boring and salty like I would be later on.
Chopping from the branches of trees low hanging meat,
hearts and hands boiled into my idle grip cauldron. All theories and none of it stone soup for anyone's soul.
What useless things are my hands without knifes and forks.
I am simply their slave as I was to my addictions to eating saviors.
Now I'm useless, godless and starving.
Gandhi was bony, spicy and tasted like young women.
Crowley tasted like young boys and patchouli
LaVey was chewy dark meat but too Gainey for me
And Nietzsche...Nietzsche was good,
in spite of the syphilis just not enough to go around.
Had to overcome that man.
I tried just about everything to cure my hungry nihilism.
I've binged on fortunes from cookies that have more faith in me than I have in myself. Sentiment in sugar, not so sweet but bland and stale as my eyes and heart.
Confucianism is a light diet kind to nature but I am not willing to share my plate nor am I that kind.
My teeth still picking saviors out.
The taste of the lamb of god hasn't washed out of mouth for years
I tried to burn it out with the devils fruit but its just humanities ******* in a gardening hose blasted in my mouth.
I can still hear the nails on my dinner plate go into his wrists,
the blood being dropped on marble as the nuns lashes crack me,
To lick it off the basilicas floor.
I am the last at my families table undecided to starve at a feast of philosophy.
Or gnaw on the bones of those I already ate.
I'm certain with a good cookbook of my creation,
with remnants left over of condiment hymns,
two slices of existential crisis,
One molded cheese of absurd ideas
and a garden of seeds I planted from the bowels of dead Messiah's.
I will have a meal.
One that maybe you all would like to partake in.
I relate to 364 licks to the center of the tootsie pop to only find out it was just dirt and high fructose corn syrup.
Like my personality it is a disappointment. Maybe the world would of been better to let this one go.
C'est la vie my family, whom leaves me at the table with a cold meal I refuse to acknowledge as food.
My father's own teachings red on my face and my mother's lessons bleeding from my ears. Welcome to church today we will be eating the lord.
Cause I feel something must fill me more than nihilism which by nature fills me with nothing but more space for my lack of motivation and self deprecating.
I need to be nothing so I must eat just that.
I want to save someone so they can eat me one day.
If I gave myself up to be eaten on Sunday's due to lack of interest in feeding myself,
I'll put a spin on my suicide and say its for my followers.
I wonder what I would taste like.
Arrogantly I'll claim myself as zesty a flavor of Passover dinner or just Christ. I can picture the burning cross on the sauce bottle.
I'd eat it.
But I may have consumed so much of Christ's body and blood, I must be what I eat.
I wanna be the devil in deserts of my passions.
The fats that I was told not to indulge just for me to steal and hide under my grandmother's shadow without shame as did Lucifer.
"For my sake", she would say,
Force fed in line to ingest the breast and white meat of Jesus with no seasoning. Just gross.
That token of him a flake disk ******* of Bible versus and boxed wine, the same meal to have fed a congregation.
A congregation that must have starved and ate each other to really live, that's probably how we have Catholicism.
My halo childhood head would crave the cheap red dry and knew what the point was to drink his veins and get drunk off of me.
I was fed not my saviors life but my-self lie, placed into my mouth as a tasteless disciple, cannibalizing my identity for salvation.
"Save me", is a phrase I never said,
Cause I thought I was made in his image.
"Feed me", was more like it.
as I chomped on my fingertips and hair.
So I conclude I must be passover for I have been eating myself.
And I am not zesty.
I'm boring and salty like I would be later on.
Chopping from the branches of trees low hanging meat,
hearts and hands boiled into my idle grip cauldron. All theories and none of it stone soup for anyone's soul.
What useless things are my hands without knifes and forks.
I am simply their slave as I was to my addictions to eating saviors.
Now I'm useless, godless and starving.
Gandhi was bony, spicy and tasted like young women.
Crowley tasted like young boys and patchouli
LaVey was chewy dark meat but too Gainey for me
And Nietzsche...Nietzsche was good,
in spite of the syphilis just not enough to go around.
Had to overcome that man.
I tried just about everything to cure my hungry nihilism.
I've binged on fortunes from cookies that have more faith in me than I have in myself. Sentiment in sugar, not so sweet but bland and stale as my eyes and heart.
Confucianism is a light diet kind to nature but I am not willing to share my plate nor am I that kind.
My teeth still picking saviors out.
The taste of the lamb of god hasn't washed out of mouth for years
I tried to burn it out with the devils fruit but its just humanities ******* in a gardening hose blasted in my mouth.
I can still hear the nails on my dinner plate go into his wrists,
the blood being dropped on marble as the nuns lashes crack me,
To lick it off the basilicas floor.
I am the last at my families table undecided to starve at a feast of philosophy.
Or gnaw on the bones of those I already ate.
I'm certain with a good cookbook of my creation,
with remnants left over of condiment hymns,
two slices of existential crisis,
One molded cheese of absurd ideas
and a garden of seeds I planted from the bowels of dead Messiah's.
I will have a meal.
One that maybe you all would like to partake in.
