Beefsteak Charlie says to Porky the Pig
I can see the party lights
someone's throwin' a bash and it sure looks big
down at the slaughter house tonight
say lets get together and hit the buffet
you might as well stuff yourself
they'll only throw it away
Old Colonel Sanders says to Elsie the Cow
golly baby you're the one
two all beef patties, special sauce, lettuce,
pickel, cheese, onions on a sesame seed bun
say we just got time for a roll in the hay
might as well stuff yourself
they're here to take you away
I know where you're going, I can tell
don't go looking for me
down in Hamburger Hell
don't misunderstand me I wish you well
don't go looking for me
down in Hamburger Hell
lyrics by Todd Rundgren
I don't know if I can make it
Might as well just fake it
I am failing
My mental illness's are getting worse
Maybe I should just stop trying..
After all, what is it worth
So everyone keep burying her in expectations
And dig her a a small grave
Who knows if we will see her tomorrow
So lets make the best of today..
Be wary, be intelligent
don't lose hope
that though you
believe in death
marking the end of your
and while it certainly is
to your problems
it certainly isn't
Looks are deceptive
It seems, and virtually feels
as though it can lead you out of ALL
the damned misery in your life
its kinda.. untrue..
because after you die..
you are to go to the Underworld..
and please, lets not talk about it
I dont have a personal experience about it
You will face just the same problems again
is it worth it to leave your progress right now?
You are doing great,
and death has doors
aren't required to knock on
for a while
A REALLY LONG WHILE
so please, enjoy the season of christmas
meet people under mistletoe
yes, I am serious about that
and see the brighter side of things
and also watch Sherlock
I like that show,
you will too
Just live and let bygones
If this is too cliche
Sorry about it.
I am trying to convey a point
there's a crack in my eye,
a slit down the side
i can no longer see;
from this crack in my eye
to be running away from me.
but this crack in my eye-
it's no ordinary wound,
it lets my worries appear.
these things shine bright
through this crack in my eye
to me, my biggest fear.
it falls to the ground
there is no longer a crack in my eye.
the glass disappears
not to be seen,
to be happy, i will always try.
I stare at the yellow, orange, red
floating across the top of the water
With my net - I chase them.
Those who escape my path
downing in the suctioned whirlpool.
It's fucking cold,
all I can think about -
That fabricated adage, "Fool me once - shame on you. Fool me twice - shame on me."
A genius of a liar,
a salesman at heart.
Intended to be used by the aggressed to remedy the pain,
surreptitiously crafted by the aggressor to ease their own.
Blame the beauty of an innocence so sweet they can actually forgive,
and try again.
Hopefully you believe that you're the fool, so that I can fuck you over one last time.
Anne crutches herself into Sister Paul's office. The nun is sitting in a chair behind a desk, hands folded on the table, eyes stern, lips a straight line. Anne stands before the desk, taking in the huge crucifix on the wall above the nun's head.
- You can sit down, Anne, the nun says, eyeing her firmly, watching the 12 year old girl, as she manoeuvres herself with one crutch onto the chair.
Anne sits down and puts the crutch beside the chair and pulls her red skirt over her knees, covering the stump where her leg had been.
- Do you know why you're here? Sister Paul asks, unfolding her hands, and laying them flat on the desk top.
- No, Anne says, looking at the nun's black and white headdress, the thin features of the face, hawk-like nose.
-There has been complaints made about you, the nun says. She watches as the girl fidgets in the chair, lifts herself with her hands, back further, on the chair. - Are you not comfortable? She asks.
- No, Anne says, My knickers are too tight.
The nun sighs, looks at the wooden ruler on her desk, wishes she could, but knows she can't.
- Complaints made by other children here and staff members, the nun says, toying with the ruler with her fingers.
-What sort of complaints? Anne asks.
-The worse sort: bad language, insolence, rudeness. It has to stop, Anne, do you understand? The voice sounded like grit poured into a bucket.
Anne fingered at her backside. -Ah, that's better, sorted it out now, she says, putting her hands together in her lap. - I can't recall any rudeness, she says, acting miss innocence, butter wouldn't melt in her mouth, kind of expression and pose.
The nun looks at the girl and inwardly is glad she never married and had children, especially if one had been like this.
- Sister Bridget says you called her a dried up prune, the nun says, looking at the dark hair and eyes of the child, the insolent way she sits and looks.
Anne frowns.- Me? To Sister Bridget?
-Yes, to Sister Bridget, and Sister Mary says, you exposed your bottom to her when she asked you to take your afternoon sleep. The nun looks at the girl's expression, her frown of brow.
- No, not me, Sister Paul, must have been some other kid's backside she'd seen.
-Are you calling these two nuns, liars?
The girl looks at her hands in her lap, raises two fingers upwards, out of the nun's sight.- No, not liars, just mistaken. We all make mistakes, Anne says, we're all human, after all.
Sister Paul's eyes darken, she grips the ruler tighter, pushes her toes to the end of her sandals.
- And some of the children have made complaints, too, the nun says, the words hard as nails from her lips.
-Ah, you know what liars kids can be, Sister. They couldn't tell the truth if it came wrapped in yellow paper saying, TRUTH. She smiles at her wit.
Sister Paul doesn't smile; her lips tighten, her eyes scan the child, if the girl at been at one of the schools, rather than the nursing home, she'd be well on her way to a sound caning.
- I know children, Anne, and liars, the nun says, eyeing the girl firmly, tapping the ruler on her palm. - You are a liar, and I know you. I have read the reports on you before you came. I was reluctant to take you in, but had little choice. You will behave yourself or be expelled from the nursing home. Is that understood?
Anne senses a fart coming on, but holds it in. - Yes, Sister, sorry Sister. It's my leg you see, it gives me pain, and keeps me awake at nights, and I get tired and I get irritable. She puts on a hurt expression.
The nun sits upright and stiff, an expression of dislike etched on her features.
-We are given pain, by God, for a purpose, Sister Paul says, it is a gift we ought to shoulder and bear with gratitude.
-Like haemorrhoids, you mean? Anne says, fiddling with her fingers, a blank look on her face.
- You know what I mean, young lady, pain in general, not in particular. At that moment the nun feels a great urge to inflict pain on the girl sitting in front of her. She can picture it, the whole scene, the satisfaction.
Anne shifts in the chair, steadying herself. - Can I go now?
The nun sits back in the chair, eyes focusing on the girl, her face straight and stiff as a board.- Your leg has been amputated, so how can it give you pain? the nun says, her words pushed from her mouth as if they were sour.
- Nerve endings, they don't realise the fucking legs gone, oops sorry, about that it kind of slipped out while I was engaged in thoughts, Anne says, looking at the nun's reddening face. - Didn't mean to, it's my leg you see, it gets me all uptight, and wound up like a clock, and then ping! Out it comes.
The nun sighs deeply. The word hammers inside her ears and brain. - I won't have such language, do you hear me, not another rude word or expression.
Anne clenches, the cheeks of her buttocks tightly, to hold in the the coming wind. She nods, gives an expression of remorse, allows her eyes to water, takes out a handkerchief from her skirt pocket and wipes her nose. - Sorry about that, don't mean to be such a bad girl, my apologises to all. She wipes her eyes, lets herself go, does her acting bit, slumps her shoulders, weeps softly.
The nun is confused, sits up, feels an urge to go around to the girl and embrace her, say, there, there, dear child, but she doesn't, instead she stares at the girl, at the slumped shoulders, at the dark hair, the sight of neck, and wonders what kind of mother she would have made had she married, would she have coped with the nappies and sickness and foul smells and dressing and undressing a baby and the disturbed nights, and a man touching her, and doing things to her. No, she couldn't have married, nor had a child. She sighs and softens, -OK, Anne, lets say no more about it, and she gets out of the chair and walks around to the child weeping, in the chair, and puts an arm about her, feeling the shallow shakes, the sobs, the sight of the one leg, knowing a stump was beneath the skirt. - There, there, calm down, it is all too much for you after losing your leg, I'll have a word with the children and staff and explain about your pain. She holds the girl close to her breast, feeling her there, the catching of breath, the sobs, the shaking shoulders, and plants a kiss on the girl's black hair and head.
- Sorry, Sister Paul, Anne says, between her acted sobs, sniffing, wiping her nose, feeling the fart go away silently, like sneaky hound, all without sound.
The nun feels her heart open and close. - All right, Anne, you may go and rest your leg or stump, she says, going back to her chair and sitting there, watery eyed.
Anne lifts her head, pushes her hair from her eyes, sniffs and wipes her nose. -Thank you, Sister, you're like a mother to me. She pulls herself up from the chair with the crutch, feels the pain shoot through the stump, rubs it, pulls a face. - I'll go and rest it, she says, soft voiced, sobs held in check, head lowered. She crutches herself from the room slowly, sensing the nun's eyes on her, feeling a sense of fulfilment, like passing an audition, and lets the door click gently behind her.
Sister Paul sits and fingers the ruler. Sniffs and coughs softly. Feeling the girl's shoulders in her hands, the gentlest of touches, the sense, momentarily, of being a mother, compassion, concern, yes, it is there, she says inwardly, maybe I might have made a good mother after all had it been God's wishes, even if I had to put up with a man's touch for the duration. Thank God, she says softly inwardly, for my vocation .
How long can your legs quake, your body shake, before your heart breaks?
How many times do you have to be knocked down before you can't pick yourself off the ground?
How much taunting and teasing does one have to do before it finally kills you?
Imagine being born into a family that loves you very much.
They work hard to provide for you and give you what you want.
Your mom works two jobs to provide for your basic needs.
Your dad works too, works 24/7, to make sure you get food to eat.
There's no money for toys or fancy clothes, but that's okay with you.
You still manage to smile, happy as always, doing what you love to do.
Now imagine being judged, taunted, ridiculed, insulted; for enjoying the little you have.
By someone who's rich with everything they want, but who's also incredibly sad.
And this sadness inside has messed with their head, it's not fair that you get to smile.
She is rich, she has so much money, but she secretly hates her life.
Imagine this person has made it their job to bring down your mood.
Imagine this person, knowing you're poor, always spits in your food.
Imagine this person, wearing their fancy clothes, throws you in the trash.
Imagine this person, that you don't even know, has made being alive sad.
You used to smile everyday, thanked your parents for what you had.
You never cared about the clothes you wore, you never thought you looked bad.
But this one kid who was upset with their life, took out their anger on you.
The words she said and the things she did had changed your point of view,
On life. You hated it, now you just wanted to die.
The pain she's caused is so immense you now longer loved your life.
That person who decided to ruin your life, to make life seem more "right".
Now that you have lost your joy she can finally sleep at night.
She's stolen your smile, killed you inside and she knows she's caused you pain.
But see, she thinks she was wronging some rights, so she is finally sane.
But you, you've lost all will to live. It'd be better if you were dead.
And so that's constantly in your thoughts, would people be happier instead?
You don't wanna believe it'll help anyone, what would your parents do?
They'd no longer have to work all night, cause no you means more food.
No you means more money, they can finally be at peace.
I would have never imagined that my parents would be better off without me.
It's 4 in the morning and I am awake, writing my parents a note.
I've told them I love them and because of that, its time for me to go.
I'll be gone forever, there's no bringing me back, as I will have bled to death.
You can find my body, drowned in the tub, clear water that would have turned red.
So she walks to the tub and fills it up, takes her clothes off and slips inside.
She tells herself, this suffering will end. Finally I can die.
And so she grabs the blade, closes her eyes and places it on her skin.
Drags it across, lets out a quiet sigh and lets herself sink in.
But I'd wonder what comment could be so bad, you would feel you're better dead than alive.
What was said to her, that made her lose her will to survive.
Was it the person who judged her for what she wore?
Was it the harassment she faced for being poor?
Was it the comment about her unwashed dress or was it the ripped shoes?
Was it her being told she would always be poor or was if the spitting in the food?
It shouldn't even matter what insult was said.
Her being happy and poor doesn't mean she deserved to be dead.
"Don't judge a book by its cover", it also means by class.
Being of a lower class shouldn't result in being harassed.
It's not something anyone chooses, so be careful what you say.
Cause once its said, it can't be forgotten and someone's life might be taken away.
For Self now
Not sure what to do with my time
But so passionate
With no passion
That’s when fire is really dangerous
When its not sure what to burn
But it needs to burn
This lets a little lava blood flow
Out of fingertips
All he dreams about now is pale bodies wrapped in fake silk
Piled on the floor of his small apartment in the place he escaped to find his real dreams
He carries out symphonies with a single broken guitar string and a pen with barely any ink
He traced the words Help Me into his forehead until blood was dry and cracking in the wound
He says the funny thing about that is no one even noticed the scar afterward or the mess in the bathroom sink
His fingers are cloaked with Nicotine and his good friend Jack
All he wants is a little extra cash to get through the wasted nights
His mouth is always cranking into harsh smiles to show his perfect teeth
On occasion, which happens to be more than that, he spills truth from his eyes
and he lets girls stay the night
He is just wishing of features to be caught up in
He is just tired of giving up his dream to cure a thing people think they are required to never feel
His loneliness drives him to do horrific things
Love is just a four letter word
unless proven in a voice for
caring. It means nothing
it is pointless.
Love is easily abused
Taken for granted
mistaken for lust
Lets face it
comes under trust
with there is no trust
Then it's simply fake
think about it
you won't understand
unless you have been