C'mon! Spank me like the naughty little girl I am!
**** ME! **** ME! Stop being a man!

See this? Right here? My tight little hole?
Put it right there, baby! Homosexuality makes you whole!

Put this on your tongue, this seed of pomegranate.
Have a little fun! Let loose your granite!

Ice shavings and ice cream, my sweet little angel,
Come closer, come closer, let me study your angels,

Put your **** in my mouth. I'll **** you off.
*** in my mouth, and let yourself loft.

I'm not one for chains and whips,
But I'm more than up for shafts and tips!

*******; sliding in; so sweet;
Pound me harder with your big, strong meat.

The good'ol in-out in-out ~ The rhythm of life.
The dullness of cream ~ the glint of a knife.

Petrifying pangs of pleasure; cross a prostate ~ pouring,
Sweetly like ~honey~suckle~ Alluring

Breathe, my darling, like music, like a breeze.
Like the blood in my ears; like the wind in the trees.

In the closet, we are allowed but seven minutes.
But that is not enough! By the time its up, I won't be finished.

So for now, my darling, put your lips on my cheek.
And allow me one, little, innocent peak.

To hang by barbed wire,
Or to be tossed in a fire,
The sultry little liar,
Upon the licks of a pyre,
And the situation is dire,
When plucked on a lyre,

This place is
Full of terrib-
le poetry and
people who t
hink they can
write.

I hate this pla-
ce and all of it's
love and hate a-
nd death poetry
written by kids
with no idea ab
out life in gener
al

You know, poetry gets old after a while of reading.

Memories of
Broken things and
Past dreams of
Soap and seams,

And all of it seems
To teem with
A neutral shade of
Green

As I sat and
Plucked and preened
Someone, somewhere,
Started to sing,

With the most
Wonderful voice
Almost as if they
Hadn’t a choice…

and Pickles from the jar,
and tiny little cars,
lined up against a hospital, far.

A fresh page,  
Ripe to ****,  
To fill with  
Thoughts, emotions, rage  

A lot of poets  
are egotistical wankers  
who think they  
can write,  
but can't.  

I hate reading poetry,  
I love my poetry,  
Am I a narcissist?  
I hope not.  
I don't like narcissists.  

I can't write,  
What am I thinking?  
'Sometimes life is not a  
Cake walk served up  
On a silver spoon'  
Don't write poetry, Josh.  
You can't do it...  

I'm not a poet.  
I listen to baby  
**** metal and  
Watch My  
Little Pony -  
I have long hair and  
I like rainbows.  

The sticky-note on  
my wall says:  
"Bah! Stanzas!"  
Another one says  
"Welcome to the  
Honorary Magical  
Unicorn Squad"  
So....  

I started writing  
with intent,  
I defenestrated it,  
though...  
It is on the ground  
outside my window.  
I should go pick it up.  
I mean...  
It is cold outside.  

I don't know...  
Sometimes...  
You just have to  
let intent die and  
go with words  
that don't rhyme  
and express emotion,  

I'm not poetrying,  
right now.  
I'm talking to a  
red notebook, with  
thoughts reading  
'I must show this to  
my brother and post  
this on a site with
people I don't know  
that will hopefully  
'upvote' my poem'  
It feels good  
not to be deep,  
To just turn my  
brain off and  
Write because what  
the **** else am  I
gonna do at  
3'o'clock in the morning  
on Sunday.  

I'm a 13 year  
old boy, I probably  
will be whisked off  
to church with my  
mother at 7 am.  
I have a party  
today I need  
to go to.  

The boy I have  
a crush on will be  
there, and so will  
alcohol, so you  
know what that means.  

Oh god,  
That sound manipulative...  
What the ****, Josh.  

Today I wrote  
something that was  
a couple tiers above  
Infant Annihilator lyrics.  
About ****** newborns,  
Why didn't I  
Cry?  

I described very  
vividly what I thought  
would happen in that  
situation with  
everything too,  
Including the baby's  
internal organs,  

I don't like my  
thoughts  
I'm a coltcuddler,  
I'm a furry  
I think about  
My Little Pony and  
Asian businessmen  
who teleport instead  
of taking the bus to  
work.

My friend went  
to the school  
dance as Gamzee  
Or someone else.  
She's in some weird  
fandom... But I can't judge.  
I went as a rainbow  

I can't come out as  
Bisexual her or else  
some **** redneck  
kid will want my  
*** and head  
on a post on his lawn  

******* Josh...  
Why couldn't you  
have been born  
a bisexual girl...  
Everyone likes  
bisexual girls.  

Don't tell anyone...  
But I like the  
way I look when  
I'm dressed as a  
girl. I'm being  
a drag queen for  
Halloween, and my  
friend, Kady, did my  
makeup for practice.  
I am beautiful as a girl.

There's this boy  
In the high school  
who dresses up as  
a girl, but isn't gay.
His name is 'Kailee'  
He is beautiful.

They played 'Come on Eileen'  
at the school dance. Kady  
and her friend, Trinity, were  
doing the Patrick and Sam  
dance from 'The Perks Of Being  
a Wallflower' I was supposed  
to be charlie but  
they stopped the music  
before I was supposed  
to come in...  
**** Commies...  

Some of you have  
stopped reading.  
Some at 'Baby ****'  
Some at 13 year old boy'  
Some at 'Boy I have
a crush'  
**** everyone who  
stop reading  

Josh  
You shouldn't *******.  
Josh  
You shouldn't read ****.  
Josh  
You should stop being  
such a little whiny  
pathetic brat.  
I hate myself  

"Give up on your  
dreams, kiddo,"  
"But...no..."  
Don't hang in there.  
*******.  
****.  
Yourself.  
You stupid ****.  

Y'no  
I want to write a book,  
Call it 'The Raft'  
About a girl  
named 'V' and  
a boy named  
Isaac  

Isaac is a real person.  
I loved him.  
He didn't love me.  
I cried.  
He didn't comfort me,  
though  
He was home  
I was home  
It was 11 at  
night on a  
school night.  

Y'no,  
I read a lot of  
gay ****.  
The best  
story was  
a scotch on the rocks.  
Scotch blows,  
Gets ******,  
*****,  
And gets a boyfriend.  

I want a boyfriend,  
I just don't think  
Austin is gay or  
bisexual.  
I hope he is...

Several years have passed,
Since I entered last,
It all went by too fast,
But what is past, is past,

To roll down one's cheek,
Like a little blue streak,
To be all but meek,
About being chique,

To fall in love with a boy,
To tease and be coy,
To be bored out of your mind,
and to play with a toy,

To move and relocate,
The urge to populate,
To quietly suffocate and,
To want to defenestrate,

To tap and to pop,
And cafeteria slop,
Ask about a sad mop,
And to epicly  rock,

To create a playlist,
and to tease balled fists,
To hide amongst swollen mist,
And not to have time on your wrist,

To drop a spork,
and to study a cork,
In order to work,
And to stalk Bjork,

Which brings us to now,
And I don't know how,
With the time I'm allowed,
Through these lines, I quickly plowed,

My dearest love,
If I were to explain the music in my ears,
It’d be an algorithm of lovely ardor,
Fervent beats and emotional rhythms,
Pursue a possibly tangible idea,
Shining lights and keyboards,
Coffee colored electric energy,
Pulsing in amber jelly motion,
A metaphorical knife is ****** into the solar plexus,
Stimulating the tear sacs,
Which then open and shed a bassline,
Which repeats in nonexistent space,
Maybe…
Just maybe…
It stretches into eternity.