If it don't make dollars
Then it don't make sense
Make cents, doesn't it?
I'm in life's drivers seat
But I don't have the gumption to gun it
Really own it, run it
Because of this consistent deceleration
My opinion on myself is really suffering to degradation
It's like Germany's currency after world war one
Worthless, wordless, like an unloaded gun
You ever know you deserve better but can't find anybody worth the time?
Yes I know I've whined constantly about this topic in rhyme
But it annoys me and breaks my heart at the same time
So if it don't make dollars it don't make sense, at least for now that's what I find

I am addicted to good writing.

This world is changing
things are being misplaced
and yet I'm still on the verge of hanging.
I'm ready to get away from the edge,
and get on with my life

Continually, I still ask myself is it worth it
instead of just getting on the edge and dropping
would it be enough to just fall
to end all of my problems
will it hurt as much as being thrown into a wall.

This sensation to end my life
grows stronger
because I continue to ask for the Knife
I care no longer
I yell reaper come sir use that scythe

I wait and I wait and I wait
I say Reaper come sir use that scythe
I say Reaper am I not worthy
is this not my fate
I know I have sinned is that why
you torture me to more than I can bare.

Here I am asking for death
and you don't come forth
I'm treated as if I don't matter
rather its West, East, South, or North
why won't you come and take my soul
is it not time to meet my maker.

Far away a voice so small
a raspy voice so rough
a dark figure lurks that's tall
a whisper is all it bares
I listen and I don't understand

What is that you say
speak sir speak more
is this not my day
Reaper just open that door
let me pass through to the afterlife

I no longer belong
take me to the Lord of the undead  
is it so wrong
please sir lay me down to bed
provide me with eternal peace.

Then I see that scythe
and there I am no longer.

between her palms
raw as a bleeding heart

******* the juice
from a ****** pulp
still beating throbbing

I pictured her tongue
******* a ****,
throbbing in her throat

The way she kissed
the soft flesh and
licked every red drop.

The moon's a dying ember
This evening in late September

A ***** copper coin
Resting on her porcelain ****

A mosaic of Ancient Corinth
As the soldiers passed
In blood-red rags
And orange

(c) Rafael Alfonzo