Gangling ghosts cause trouble inside this meaty microwave-- I am on these streets and don't know how I got here. I'm carrying 2% milk, in my left hand, and a carton of extra-large eggs in my right-- I drop the jug and it bursts. I joke about how I still have 2%, but no one laughs because no one has ever really been around to hear me. So, I'm scrambling eggs and wishing I had that milk because who doesn't like voluminous eggs. I stop whisking and ask who is there. Why am I afraid of you, Why am I afraid of you the raw scrambled eggs on the floor, touched by ceramic seashells. And it's you. You are the Lord, a ***** lover, that absence caused by my auto-pilot parents Forever, right here.
Upon a milky hill beneath the mounds of snow Frozen with the horn I took but was too afraid to blow Beyond the sound of muffling around the river’s bend Walked a true love of mine to whom I was a friend Come cast your voice yonder Your shrill towards the sky I hope for your hand in mine I am afraid to die
These hearts have become racist What used to be kind And all hope to be seen is wasted On the stampeding blind
These teeth have become stained What used to be white Has been darkened by the viscera of those consumed by the night
These hands have become destroyers Fingers that once saved Equal and human; Clean or depraved
These hands have become destroyers I feel you chewing the limb that used to be there Your skin is under my nails You're burning my fingertips And pulling my teeth
You strangle me deep among the sea of leaves Flashing advertisements in my eyes, Listening to my every word. You tell me I'm sacrificing for the greater good. But I feel submissive. I feel hateful.
You say Eve is the reason for the downfall of mankind. She is nothing but of rib and even bone cracks. Saying this as you dislodge my jawbone. I try to argue with you, but my language is gone.
You say that a dog is harmless if surrounded by fence. That the owner of the dog should pay for the fence. That the ***** could **** or produce pups that would ****. I am still without words and losing copious amounts of blood.
I am poor and no-one will acknowledge my death. I am someone people will forget died and will have to be reminded years from now, during a cook-out or amateur bowling tournament. My legacy is that of failure and being obliterated, justifiably so.
These people look to money, to colors on fabric idols, to pages in a book written by share-croppers afraid of flooding.
Remove me, so, to remember me for what potential may have existed. Kindly ignore that I never resisted, and that I, the apex of forevers, was always ungrateful. That I conformed and became deeply hateful.