Not exactly proud of it
Just don't have the time
No teeth or claws
Nothing really but hunger
Not begging or choosing
Just desperate for something to eat
And when we find something, anything
It becomes disgusting.
But we don't care
We don't have a choice
It's not like we will get to see
So we feed.
And we feed..
it's grainy, blobbed against my grey matter
rubs one out to my blinded neighbore, the hooker
clockwork how she turns the knob,
her man, her man moans with such disdain
she objects by cooking food that smells of shit!
my pen, now a horseshoe, laugh over whiskey,
my brow scowled but eyes are happy
poking your eye out with my sloppy brush;
create constant puns with a lunatic bell,
we put the glass up against the wall, in hush
look at each other with such disgust; its deathly moan
change direction, whiz out the door
...fluxed out and ask, "what the fuck is going on in that bed?"
“Love is like a reckless twin; I’m giving in.”
Scandipop on the radio,
The scent of marijuana hanging heavy in the air;
The fruits of my love lie wasted,
Overripe and burdensome,
And I drink deeply from the sweet pools of wine
That gather where the fruits were bruised,
Either by their lesser fall,
Or their greater failure,
Having been inspected by most,
And rejected by all.
Marked explicit just in case.
Tooth decay and
lie in cheek.
There’s a rotten
part of me
I am bitter
and this is
I am a slow,
I am pale
from all of
Life is a toxic waterfall, pouring down emotions,
Drowning out my soul.
Hollow to your words and touch my heart is just a hole.
A empty void in a cage, I'm plagued a rotten toll.
For the bird inside it sings no more its stiff dead, died and cold.
Looking down at chipped nail polish
That is barely covering my fingernails
I'll wonder why it turned out this way
Why I started to rot so quickly
Creativity is dangerous
It provides the most vivid dreams
But it can give you the worst nightmares
That as I've aged, my creativity has soured
Became less useful
More of a burden
As I speak what I've written, the words leave a bitter taste in my mouth
I've gone bad
Out of date
Rather than pages of art
And words I'm proud of
I'll feel the need to write pages of symptoms
Pages of feelings I don't like
Pages of things that scare me
Pages where I've written a hundred ways I could die
And ninety nine ways I'd like to
Once something expires, it rots
No one picks the rotten fruit
I will always be the slippery slope
they warn you not to go down
I am the clutter in your closet
they ask you to clean out
Forever the reason you look
both ways before crossing
They say I am not right for you
But I want to be your happiness
The world sees me rotten
I wish for you to help me
Paint the world with color
So we may prove them wrong
Copywrite under Bianca Reyes
All rights reserved
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