Obviously, what being Catholic means
is that I am going to have God **** you in your dreams
if you are not white or straight or perfect
you shall be ****** to the burning pits of Hell.

Us Catholic girls, we know are place,
in the kitchen cooking and cleaning up after out husband and 10 kids.
As for the gentlemen, they know how to live.
They work and are the boss of the house.

We go to Church and pray
and ask for our sins to be forgiven (even though we NEVER sin).
The angels grace us with perfection
and give us rights to shove the Bible down other's throats.

So I guess you were right all along
about the way every single Catholic is.
We are all the same like Gospel singing robots
and if you do not get the sarcasm in this poem
it is you I pity.

My love for you is like a rainy day
It may seem dreary until you go and play in the rain.

Excuse me?
No...that was awful.
Let me try again.

My love for you is really like this poem
Pitiful yet amusing.

Because apparently it is not okay to laugh at poetry
Rather sit and shed a lone tear at the emotions it brings.
Honestly, that just entices my humor more.

Can we shed ourselves of these ridiculous allusions of torture and strife?
Maybe just be decent.
I admit to being a victim of self victimization, but that ends tonight.

Down with the ****** black queen of despair.
Down with the frivolous poems of tears.

The turkey shot out of the oven
and rocketed into the air
It knocked every plate of the table
and partly demolished a chair
I think this is now plagiarism. Whoops.

If you combine every cliche in the book
It wouldn't compare to how I feel for you.

Because I want to love you
And **** you in your sleep.

There is no one around.
Not a breath.
Not a whisper.
Not a soul.
Isn't it lovely?

Everything is still.
Frozen in the moment.
Frozen in space.
Frozen in time.
Isn’t it liberating?

The voices inside are screaming.
Nowhere to run.
Nowhere to hide.
Nowhere to escape.
Isn’t it peaceful?

There is a mysterious desire to being completely alone.
No body to speak to.
No place to be.
No one to be.
Isn't it worth it?

Are flitting in my **** heart again.
Rip off the wings.
(like that will help)

They drop to my stomach and fly around.
Puke them out.
(they'll be back)

They pull me to you every time I try to turn away.
Crush them.
(good try)

It does not matter what I try.
Burning.
Slashing.
Destroying.
Because those **** butterflies will always fill my soul.
Will you please stop putting them there? \
(probably not)

A love poem simply does not apply,
for that would imply that I am tolerant of the affections I have.

Alas, I am shamed and rather miffed at the so called delight of nature,
preferring to rather have my eyes pecked out by crows then suffer through heartache.

Not by my own choice do I look over yet again to where you sit,
hoping, praying for merely a glance in my direction.

The hunger is never satisfied.
The heart is never full.
I will never again feel alright.
All my colors are now dull.

Why, pray-tell, must I swoon at every word you speak?
Why must intelligence graze your lips and make my head swirl?

I must tell you, before I take my leave.
That my love is not by choice,
I will do everything in my power to be liberated.