Apple bottom *******
I take time for snitches

Stitches for fourth degree burns
I’ll meet you in the ditches

The trenches
The sneakers

The benches
For tweakers

Let’s be family on the further side
Of normal

Let’s be ******* on the closer side
Of formal

I rhyme when it comes to me
I shine when she **** to me

Every single little **** who thinks he’s entitled to his own opinions
Eats liver on the back of the nymphomaniac’s forefront
        Vulgarity for the sake of such

If there was anything I could tell you
It would be to go away
I don’t need you here
But who are you
And what am I?
And why is he?
And how is she?

Messages of forlorn from me to you
You and I
Sky is pi
And ridiculous atrocities through 10 story buildings

Russian mobsters break my wrists
And make it so my wings lift me higher

Let’s speak in forked tongues about the future
Let’s speak in future about tongues

I feel like I need more gasoline in my veins
I gotta keep going somehow

I’m not writing for you.
I used to, I used to,
I used to write for you.
I still poetically stutter.

Write for me, write for You?
Write for me.
Writing for me for now.
Hopefully there’s a shift in the paradigm.