and I did,
I missed
every opportunity
to explain
how making you win
was my greatest loss
impossible
beyond the void
the pale rider
the golden hour tint
night cap
thirst of the sun
we rode on the hope, but paled
in comparison
to the cost
what it would take
to unknot the debt
the sheer face of its cliff o'er the drink
of my shame
the canon of our war effort
what it took
convincing you all
how the loss was not helping me win
you loved winning without me
and so, was our blood
from wounds
viper-deep
lacerations of the ropes
clung to for years
screaming for salvation
intestines too slack for healthy grips
of sanity, wound around wounds
wrapped in rapture
zany, I remember, the yells
like children,
screaming ****** ******
pushing each other
on swings
they were never meant to have
so much fun
like,
******* my wives ******
was too much ****** fun
wasn't it
what a win
what an epic
the mythology
how, could one enjoy such agony
in the midst of pleasure's ******
how soft women are
how the chainsaw blade
is not meant for such flesh
how the tongue is not
by the throat,
meant for such holler
such balloo
high notes, on yonder mercy,
how the flesh, should ne'er know
the cut of tools so ready
for imaginations so cruel
to touch, in broad daylight
or cool, summer night
the groan of understanding undeserving
how the criminal, gloats,
until the prison cell gleams
with its pearl so fat
so far from freedom, the clam
has its keep, its treasure
the bars, of steel and stone
steal the strength, of every debauchery
convince the thief
the murderer
the liar
that that last one
that that one before
that that
that that
that first
mayhaps that
that first, maybe
that one
firstly
before considering the good
the thrill of the crime
next time
maybe back
allll that way back
to that first one
maybe it was not worth the gander
the thrill
that first one
how the cold steel wounds
that confidence
how, the stone, drinks the heat
of the murderer's blood
down to a smooth, fitful chill
a circumspect, chilling pensieve gait
down the memory's grasp
of every
blood curdling smile
not so toothy, in the embrace
of Sheol, the cement
wrought with the deeds
of one's own decaying lustful joy in
the demise of the joys of innocence
and the innocent
how wardens, true wardens,
enjoy seeing the heat of a murderer
so hot in watching the life of a woman
leave her eyes,
cool, in him, as if that life were his meal
and all her potentials
all that could have spelled her heavens
the will of her
to toil for God
produce the crop of all joys to come
children laugh, not scream
icecream, not blood curdling
let the prison walls eat the thieves' joys
let them joys perish...
... let me win...
Nov 17, 2025
Nov 17, 2025 at 8:16 AM UTC
and I did,
I missed
every opportunity
to explain
how making you win
was my greatest loss
impossible
beyond the void
the pale rider
the golden hour tint
night cap
thirst of the sun
we rode on the hope, but paled
in comparison
to the cost
what it would take
to unknot the debt
the sheer face of its cliff o'er the drink
of my shame
the canon of our war effort
what it took
convincing you all
how the loss was not helping me win
you loved winning without me
and so, was our blood
from wounds
viper-deep
lacerations of the ropes
clung to for years
screaming for salvation
intestines too slack for healthy grips
of sanity, wound around wounds
wrapped in rapture
zany, I remember, the yells
like children,
screaming ****** ******
pushing each other
on swings
they were never meant to have
so much fun
like,
******* my wives ******
was too much ****** fun
wasn't it
what a win
what an epic
the mythology
how, could one enjoy such agony
in the midst of pleasure's ******
how soft women are
how the chainsaw blade
is not meant for such flesh
how the tongue is not
by the throat,
meant for such holler
such balloo
high notes, on yonder mercy,
how the flesh, should ne'er know
the cut of tools so ready
for imaginations so cruel
to touch, in broad daylight
or cool, summer night
the groan of understanding undeserving
how the criminal, gloats,
until the prison cell gleams
with its pearl so fat
so far from freedom, the clam
has its keep, its treasure
the bars, of steel and stone
steal the strength, of every debauchery
convince the thief
the murderer
the liar
that that last one
that that one before
that that
that that
that first
mayhaps that
that first, maybe
that one
firstly
before considering the good
the thrill of the crime
next time
maybe back
allll that way back
to that first one
maybe it was not worth the gander
the thrill
that first one
how the cold steel wounds
that confidence
how, the stone, drinks the heat
of the murderer's blood
down to a smooth, fitful chill
a circumspect, chilling pensieve gait
down the memory's grasp
of every
blood curdling smile
not so toothy, in the embrace
of Sheol, the cement
wrought with the deeds
of one's own decaying lustful joy in
the demise of the joys of innocence
and the innocent
how wardens, true wardens,
enjoy seeing the heat of a murderer
so hot in watching the life of a woman
leave her eyes,
cool, in him, as if that life were his meal
and all her potentials
all that could have spelled her heavens
the will of her
to toil for God
produce the crop of all joys to come
children laugh, not scream
icecream, not blood curdling
let the prison walls eat the thieves' joys
let them joys perish...
... let me win...
I HATE criminals & evil...
