Vehement despise
of a gender's con;
victorious claim
of a mother's life.

The chant of a ******
echoes and flies;
of a holy's con,
a behemoth of a sin.

Then a cowardly raven,
its wings fly up high;
tumultuously, slowly
its downfall takes place.

Its beak stings and goes
through a mother's skull;
her children don't cry
but parade and admire.

In the pits of desire
the children's grief lies;
of a whoreridden father
and a mother who groped.

Learn to fly, never did
for their wings feathers hadn't;
in fact, grown up still haven't
and parents they haven't.

Their cores turn to pulp
and their nerves to black clots;
of sensations they were,
of a dull, bereft life.

One should not spill their tears,
for letting out a part of the soul
leaves one ever more empty.

Our jars are never full;
our child always has to take the top,
the creamy, silky top.

We have to let it smear
and take a bite out of our bodies;
its gums squeeze and pull,
striving for a chew of our skin.

We can't deny it anything at all,
for it throws a temper tantrum,
a testament to its uselessness.

We can't avenge nor claim
what's so rightfully, truthfully ours;
we can't stop it from wanting,
nor can we stop it from ******* us dry.

Jump! Her brain says...
...it says, but think does not
of the fall
and the thrill
of ungluing her shoes off the edge of the bridge
for she wants to jump,
not to see the top of people's heads
that'll stare in pity at her pavement-kissing corpse;
not to see her shadow, growing ever larger, ever darker
and ever more, ever more
akin to the likes of her:
not to look at her "Dear Lucy", her only friend,
face to face
one last time
in hopes of a final Goodbye Kiss.

I saw the shamrock fall,
I saw the shamrock mourn and rot
for Ireland's children, noble beings,
succumbed to England's scorn.

The mother's arms are open,
her children run from her breast
for the English started hanging us
for the wearing of the green.

O' Ireland, your tears have spilled
and reddened your pretty Celtic eyes,
you're full of forlorn and pain
for the Ires die away.

The English rag arises,
the cross barefacedly waved;
the ****** red, left-right strokes
have been drawn on Ireland's chest.

She was stripped of a family,
all bleeding and alone;
now she's fallen to the ground
where her children also fell
when they broke their necks
or when their air was gone;
now all that's left is the wonderful grass
where us fallen lay beneath;
our loving mother is back,
protecting us wearers
the wearers of the green!

As her feet roar louder,
my hatred for the *****
paints itself in my eyes,
crying a lament
of nothingness;
a black, ever-tall wall,
growing bigger and closer to squeeze me
and smear my innards,
lightning fast.

The **** now arrives,
a repulsive, saggy beast;
her leprous, sun-burnt hands,
her thick, drooling fat,
her cartoony, rotten denture,
her malformed, cubical toes,
her clinging, raisin ****;
and her *****, wretched womb
from where my being
has sadly come from.

The ***** now leaves
with a thing in her hand;
it is not her costly, ridiculous, slutty clothing
nor is it her shiny, annoying, stupid fake jewelry;
it is the abortion that failed,
the inevitable omen
of teenager idiocy;
it is I whom she is holding,
her impious creation,
her trophy of defeat,
of the loss of a prosperous life,
of unwanted, fist-ridden coitus.

A flag
waved and boasted
by its monochrome patriots,
darkness and light. Night.

A country
where everyone swims in air;
endless, smooth,
swinging dynamism. They fly.

You can tell how wealthy they were
by peeking through their windows;
y'either see stupid jewels
or pestilent, dirt-ridden bare feet.

Left, right, right, left swing.
Choreographic death,
symphonic screeching
composed by man
and played by God.

Both of you are me but I am not you but both of you
but you are both me and I am both of you but I am not you
is that why I love you two so much yes it is I see you in me and me in you and me in you not you and you one's gone and I'm torn for death of you two kills me while I live on

But they say there are fates worse that death yes there are
Please die later do not die before I do die do not die as I die
before yes but you two will be hurt I don't want to hurt you no
telling myself I'd do no I won't say what I've said I want to say for a while I wanted to say what I want to say right now but I haven't said it until now that I think it is time to tell told truth been told
I love you two I am.

feeling better and satisfied love you of my commitment to love you love you and love you whenever love you you feel like turning your own love necks you.

Friends.
Don't lie before my feet;
not beneath six of them.