why is my usage of the english tongue, like your fake of treating it like a teacher, when, you're, clearly not? you're not a teacher... you never will be... get that ridicule out of your head... i can survive on the street... death doesn't scare me... but living on does.

my eyes are aquariums,
as if a Russian regret,
so sold, former giants
sized to height of a thumbs up,
i have no heart...
i have a stone, a stone, a stone,
the lake beckoned us
to dream; and instilled with
Narcissus' stillness-of-self-love
we are no more to know;
i will not love for a newly wed
care of divorce -
my eyes are aquariums -
my tears are the fish that span
2 seconds of memory....
next time you feel personal,
aid will come when you support West Ham;
a joke's a joke when it makes
you uncomfortable...
i have no affinity to secure placement in
Marxist theory and subsequent applause;
i was never born to a roofer father
and a mother who cared for Jewish mothers
of lawyers... i was never actually here.
i received a copy of *Bernard Shaw's
Complete Works from Mrs. Rockmann
after completing my GCSE's...
no matter, an Egyptian spat at my mother
and father who sat with me in a high-school bench,
who i played happy birthday to...
while ******* the mother of my child...
i might be deluded... or i just might be misinformed...
whatever... bagels 'r' us... salty beef to boot...
just get me off this orb and hopes of an eternal
tomorrow; i'm done!