my mom gave me a lovely pair of pajama bottoms
sewn from baby pink satin
with cream lace edges.

i loved to wear those frilly little shorts
day and night and night and day
until i realized something not-so-lovely.

they soon became a lacy representation
of your see-through personality
with the way my ******* showed through.

oh i dont seem like much
but when i trap you and fill your mouth with
verbs and synonyms youll see that my syntax has
been begging to touch
your lips and feel your lungs and there isnt
much punctuation in this poem which you can clearly
see but it doesnt really matter to me much because ill
know with your disgust at my inability to
use proper grammar that youll have acknowledged
my existence

you petty people should thank me
for all the work i've done.
what work, may you ask?
why, have you not read a classic?
have you not heard beautiful orchestral music?
don't tell me i'm worthless!
for from my invisible ***** have sprung
millions of brilliant works
admired by humans on a daily basis.
why do humans seek love
when the route to me is less ragged?
what did love ever bring to the table?
artwork? literature? no!
the novels you read about passionate lovers
springs from the very emotion that i behold!
love never typed or scripted
or sang or acted
for it is me--sadness!--who spins the earth.
he's crazed! you may gasp
but when my influence finds you
it'll seep from the music notes
and drip from printed words
like the blood of a slit vein
(which, may i humbly add,
i have also given rise to)
and overcome your mind likewise
to the countless others
doubtful of my solitary strength.
but nonetheless my beautiful wrath is here to stay
in the form of human emotion and creation
but i will never succumb to my own nature
because frankly
i enjoy my work.