These places
Lose faces
And shut down the blinds

These places
Lose faces
And lock and the doors

These floors
Abhor
Any trace of what could have been

These floors
Abhor
Any trace of what might have been

Shut down, find no trace of them.

(**** them) (**** them) (**** them)
Relax
The ending comes slowly

Relax
Don't forget to breathe

Their hands
All on me
Emptying my everything

I am becoming you
My first
The prettiest little corpse

Don't forget to breathe
wait WHAT came first//
\See me. bE mE/

a s
      phy
              xiat
                      ing

She holds
Inside
All your little lies
She holds
Inside
All the sins of mankind
Filthy womb
Inside my mind
Filthy tomb
I can't find
Filthy
My way
Filthy
Out of
Filthy
This place
Help
Suffer
Me
Help
Suffer
Me

The page
Grows longer
Every day
The page
Grows longer
In every way

Don't look
They can't see
Don't look
Or you'll find, see
See?
Seee?
Seeeeeeeeeeeeee?e
e?
eeeeeee?

He comes
Inside of me
He comes
The night filled with ecstasy
Then comes
the death of
M
e

Ripping limbs
All of them
Tearing away


Rend
Love
Tearing a hole
Right through

You don't need to know
None of us needs to know
We're held there with our eyes pried open and forced to watch as the end is televised
                                    and
                                            we beg for more
                                                                           like oil thirsty ******
     we
           alll
                  want
                             blood
                                        we
                                              all
                                                   slow
                                                            down
                                                                       to watch
                                                                                       the
                                                                                                 p
                                                                                                 r
                                                                                                 e
                                                                                                 e
                                                                                                 t
                                                                                                 y
                                                         car
                                                          w
                                                           r
                                                           e
                                                           c
                                                           k

How am I supposed to write when I'm content?
When my lungs are full, my heart beating rapidly to her rhythm.
I can't claim I'm a victim of neglect, or a victim nevertheless.
***** earth turns desolate so I live where it's fertile and ain't got to worry about sacrosanct.
If you didn't know me then you might think that I've closed myself off a bit,
You might think that even if ya did.
But honestly, I feel like Bowie retreating to the desert to hide away and let the whims of creativity take the reins without so much ******* interference.
Anyway, I left a message on your machine, sorry you can't hear it.
It said I was going for cigarettes and the rest is just history,
So would you mind mailing these dear john letters to the ****** I've bred?
How many little projects I got running around with legs of their own that I ain't even know?
My inbox keeps filling and I'm barely here.
Too many books to write, like literally, I'm backed up on a deadline and procrastinating in free-verse.
I don't like to rehearse what I do, nor do I really outline or heavily plan.
God exists in the unknown, so I do my best to let the unknown through and getting the **** out it's way.
How many people you meet tuck away fifty books in less than two years, paycheck cashed and disappeared again?
About time I get my name on some more of this ****,
Either that or quit,
And I ain't close to done yet.
Success isn't a ladder you climb, it's a cycle.
Innovate,
Change,
Succeed,
Or get down on your ******* knees and gag of life's ****,
You're choice.

Depths of depravity, you can not take from me
You can not take it nor can you fake it
**** around or get *****, kid.
Such a dog to me, to pet to play;
A kitten fed on ecstasy
Of chemical bliss contracting touch, you see.
Rush through me and take everything
But in these depths of sweet depravity,
We shall be as one.

And I still love each and every one of you.
From the ****** to the harlots, the housewives, single mothers and emo creamsicles.
The scene chicks with the big hair always held a hold on my chest.
Dyed hair, whiskey and cigarettes.
Play another round, let's stay a while and place another bet.
The house is losing at last, so goodbye to all of you.
An **** subsides, the **** of a nation's replaced the pornstars.
I've got horns on from the things I've done to you, for you and with you.
A latina *** is sleeping in my bed and there's a Colombian marching band playing through my head.
There's only so many pikes to fit these holes and hoist my severed visage.
I'm a wizard but not the grand type; more Gandolf the grey, country white boy neurodivergent.
The city's gone now there's a kitten in my bed, with her *** in the air and the smell of **** and *** in the air.
There's an animalistic, cannibalistic streak to the violence between our touches.
I'm a rough **** hungover from a trip down suicide lane again;
At least it's more ideation and less action;
But ain't that my problem these days anyway?
I miss the dyed hair, the tattoos and the things I'mma do to you.
Let's hurry up this solo-death and spill ****** fluids across the canvas again, lover one.

I have a tendency of opening my tendons, see
I tend to write til' tensions take intended words and swallow verse
Inside my person I've been riding hearses with infected nurses
Spitting curses at these ******' governmental oversights
And on these nights, when I can write, and swallow frights
I fall in fights and loose my lights and all my rights
Til' try I might, my stomach turning tight, but where does it go from here?
What do you want to hear? Another I love you?
Another I loathe you until' the blood breaks the surface?
I'm a lodestone for your negativity,
A baby Jesus in a burning nativity scene that screams at the seams when reality bends, breaks and shatters
So you can fall back naked on the bed, with a pen in your hand
And suffer for every finger that ran across the barren land of your ignorance.
I'm not a nice a person, but neither are you
And no baby, I ain't attracted to a **** thing about you
But what else is new?

Blood ******, though blessed be my enemies
I've been doing fine lately, so maybe that's why there's less lines in my mind.
I've been lost imagining fingers on my spine, breath in my ear and your tongue on my lips.
Couldn't give a **** if my anxiety tells me to quit; that's what it said about writing but what keeps these lights on?
I'm a crisis but one that's running out of steam.
Soon I'm going to have to accept that I'm just fine and let this version of myself die.
Not sure why I keep holding on, I guess I kinda like the way the words flow when I let 'em.
But I'm getting older, another decade facing me from across a calendar flip.
Not quite "oh ****, this is it" levels of old but enough to realize I'm not sure what I want to be.
A year ago I wasn't so dead set on building a house and starting a family.
Now I want to be a grandfather with some goats in his yard, a pipe on his lips and too much knowledge to be allowed to live.
I kid, but only in the slightest.
Let my ****** be justified, just let it be far away.
Rather raise a kid and see them grow into their own while I water the garden of my own consciousness.
Grow some skills with lots of tender care and prosper properly in perfection permanently.

My words are a poison, pick them perfectly, preferably with passion and pleasure.
You might just get a treasure.
But find me with your irony, your ivory tower and ignorance and I'll watch as both eyes rot out of your head.
Who did you think was running this show?
God's a hobo with a list of fetishes, vices and curses;
He ain't afraid to use them, bruise them or let them die.
Look into his eyes, do you see a smile or your demise?
I'll let you in a secret, so long as you keep it,
Which won't be hard where you're going.
So listen close, while the hounds of hell nip at your feet,
I'll only say this one, so listen well...
...****, he fell.