I am utterly convinced
that my spirit is a ten-cent *****,
letting any passing nemesis
**** it in the mind
with almost no tension.

It must enjoy the sensation
as its host clearly shows
in the streams of tears
that flow through the eyes,
the spirit's *******.

It must moisten its knickers
at the viewing of torture,
as its host sits in an icy stupor,
with the times of grotesque
spectacle-sobs on tile flooring,
nicks on the wrist, what have you-
the only times of breathing.

My spirit must have stolen all the
charm it takes to captivate
the enemy into arousal,
as the host stumbles awkwardly in
public, pushing all potentials away
with vehemence and convincing itself
of its inferior quality to
even the vermin of the sewer.

My spirit has made me the loathing host
to the parasite of my own being,
my mind the main casualty,
ridden with **** from villainy both
outer and inner, decay from traumas
more persuasive than the tongue
of Casanova.

I hope it's happy.