My mind; as fast as the track on Brands Hatch,
on Tinder you get a fast match,
but spoil it with sick head quick **** pics,
you *****, you're patriarchy rich.

tonight let’s take depression out into the night light
dress it up in heels and lipstick so it will be approved
but that night
out in the night light
will result in learning the niche
for fraud

tonight let’s take depression out into the moon light
the bottled poetry laying underneath the soil
I dig for it
to quench depression
for depression is thirsty
in need of relief

tonight let’s take depression into the darkness
here there is nothing for her to hide her naked person
she is exposed
she can do nothing but lay on her back
and feel like chill of sheets on her spine
as she takes over herself

tonight let’s take depression under the ground
the same place where the bottle of poetry lay
ironic isn’t it
the thing that put her there
lay the foundation
for where she would end up

You aren't going to **** yourself tonight because, in one of the

spun sugar fragile sequences of the events in your life, it works

out. There is a place, somewhere amidst star stuff and cosmic

collisions, where you are not the problem daughter or the

biggest disappointment or the most regretted kiss. There is a

place where you sink into a desk in your eight a.m. class and

a boy with bags under his eyes and a hole-y sweater pulled

over his knuckles says, "hi." There is a place where your father

comes back from the war with sand grit in his eyes, blood

under his fingernails and lets you save him.  There is a place

where you live in India, where you aren't afraid to love, where

everything hurts less, where you stopped punishing yourself for

the faults of your parents. You are a girl. Not a dart board or a guilty

verdict or the final, desperate ****** of a sword through

someone's chest. You are made of the same stuff as Marie

Antoinette and Catherine the Great and Elizabeth, and you

can command the winds too. You aren't going to **** yourself

tonight because no one ever asked you about the scars on your

thighs but that doesn't make them nonexistent or unimportant.

You aren't going to **** yourself tonight because you've grown:

stronger in some ways and weaker in others, but you are still

a result of rhapsodies in violet and trees bowed to the sea

and soldiers with wind burn on their cheeks. Tonight, you are

going to wrap your own arms around your own chest and

breathe, swaying silently to no music. You are going to

memorize the sound of silence, and you are going to listen hard

for the even, jagged, pitter patter of your heart. You are going

to thank your body for waging war against itself, you are going

to apologize to your head for bruising your heart. You are going

to feel the roughness of the floor and the vastness of the entire

world and all of the eventualities spread before you. You are

going to remember that this is only one, that atoms and

molecules are flighty, whimsical, prone to selfishness and

longing for the promise of stability. You are going to press your

lips to your own wrists and know, as surely as Anne Boleyn

knew when she walked to the guillotine, that no one can save

you but yourself. You aren't going to **** yourself tonight

because you are not an accident of the multiverse. You are

purposeful and beautiful and young and reckless with your

feelings, but you are not a mistake. Listen to the trembling

of your heartbeat and breathe. You aren't going to **** yourself

tonight.

With fingers holding the tail end of a cigarette (or the head end)
I wonder how my Daddy feels, when he imagines killing people who are different to him
cigarette companies make cigarettes
and he generates poison, and ejects it with his words.
His poison existed in my blood and in my soul for years
Mecca, Baghdad, colour, allah; the person, the religion.
I hated them all, with the power that Daddy hates cigarettes and of course the others
What gives him the right to hate all of those things, and tell me what I should and shouldn't hate.
I lift the cigarette up to my mouth and enjoy the thought of my bubble wrap lungs popping
I cough and it's rubbing it in my Daddy's face
While you're scheming dropping bombs, and becoming what you hate
I'm dying, slowly and laughing at the morbid thought
that while your hate won't **** anyone; your crippled manhood.
My hate for you is killing me
inhale, exhale.

You'll find me in the garden
pulling up the roots
claiming my boots are the only thing in my life that's grounded
because 7 months ago when you were wasted
blowing smoke out your lungs
telling me you loved me, that that was enough
I should've started running because you hated cigarettes
and you've never been one to believe that love is enough
I thought I was enough
You thought I was tough but I'm as timid as my Sunday school heart
I thought you were a brilliant piece of artwork lover

Lover, I made you a time machine
out of paper mache and paper mached my heart
and handed it to you with my full regards
You're sick of the yardwork I wanna do
I'm sick of picking up your muddy boots but I'd still
shoot myself to the moon as long as you'd follow right behind me
Maybe we should just take up drinking so you can love me
full time instead of the part of time you actually do
and I knew you were a natural disaster the first time I laid my eyes on you
in the back of the bar
ripping me apart like a city
and leaving the crowd to pick up the pieces of my heart
I wish you still loved me when you were sober
because when you're wasted I can taste it
the fallacy in your throat
the lips that feel undone
and you
and how we used to be so right
and how now it's all so wrong

Some boys with cheek play hide and seek within a house condemned
their faces gaunt reflecting want that’s hard to comprehend.

With veiled excuse an old recluse is waiting to descend.
His eye despairs above the stairs, he’s never had a friend
to talk about his hidden doubt of how his world will end -
to die unknown, forlorn, alone? No use a farewell penned!

And soon the boys chase phantom joys then, presto when they’ve gone,
the old recluse, with nimble noose and ****** features wan,
no longer waits upon the Fates but yawns his final yawn
(like Tinker Bell, he spins a spell, though fairy dust's withdrawn).  

With twisted brow, he’s tranquil now, he’s floating like a swan
and as he fades from life’s charades, the night awaits the dawn.

A shilling life will give you all the facts:
How Father beat him, how he ran away,
What were the struggles of his youth, what acts
Made him the greatest figure of his day;
Of how he fought, fished, hunted, worked all night,
Though giddy, climbed new mountains; named a sea;
Some of the last researchers even write
Love made him weep his pints like you and me.

With all his honours on, he sighed for one
Who, say astonished critics, lived at home;
Did little jobs about the house with skill
And nothing else; could whistle; would sit still
Or potter round the garden; answered some
Of his long marvellous letters but kept none.