I'm sick of writing *******
angst fueled piles of
**** poems about how much
I think about stupid *******
and how I sickly miss their sadistic
tendencies exercised upon my
unsuspecting psyche.

I write of greys and nothings
and try to create murky landscapes
because I'm ******* bored and high
and I know that kind of ****
resonates with some of you creepy *******.

I wrote so many ******* poems for her,
for you, dearest.
So many poems I thought you would see
how much I love you, how much I would give all of myself.
For nothing.
I told you no the other day,
after not hearing from you for months.
That twisted my guts but I asked
my sister what to do and she is
one of the few creatures with a ******
I trust.

I'm sick of reading other peoples
**** of lost love and broken hearts
and **** gone wrong and he loves
her but she likes ***** and *******
empty heads smashing empty hearts
and abuse and neglect and so many
******* gut wrenching tales of woe
it makes me sad to be a part of this..
pathetic conglomeration of fools, humans.

Sure, there is some positive **** out there,
but even that makes me want to puke.
I'm envious and doubtful, cynical and jaded.

I want to believe my one is out there,
but I'm not getting any prettier
or any smarter
and I have grown weary of
even trying to try.

I'm tired and ******
and I just want a soft
sweet smelling pile of flesh
next to me rubbing my
temples and whispering in my ear
stories of bugs and latex body paint
and what dress she is going to wear
for me.

****.

I'm tired of writing poems like this
and I'm tired of reading poems like this
and I only want a sweet dripping ***** on my face.
I never claimed to be a poet.

Here and now, alone,
My thoughts turn to you,
your pale skin
your new glasses.
Your black hair is
getting longer.
I didn't expect to find
a picture of you waiting
for me this morning,
I didn't expect to
feel this emptiness
eat me again.

I thought I was getting better.

i think too much
about throwing up
about emptying
that which people tell me
is wrong.

to society
i am
disgusting
i am
too fat
i am
repulsive
"no one wants to look at THAT"
they say.
because beautiful
is malnourished bones
thighs that don't touch
stick-thin arms
bony
ribcages...

it has been POUNDED INTO ME
that beautiful is NOT
what i am
that beautiful
is achieved by the shape of your body...
and maybe i'm not a perfect size
maybe my stomach isn't flat
maybe my thighs
are chubby
maybe
i'm not a lot of things
but i believe
that i AM
beautiful...
and no amount
of ugly hearted people
who tell me that i am not
will get to me.

i was made like this
and i would not change it
for the world.
**** it,
*******
generation.

You can do it now, if you want.
Get ****** up,
****** over,
Stepped on,
****** with
and just plain ******.

Right in your ***, if you want.

You can wallow and writhe
in miserys mud, carve a new scar
and think it's all your fault,
If you want.

You can even throw a bag
of your body parts into the river,
if that's your kind of happy.
You can do it now, if you want.

You can drop the false smiles
and start telling these mother *******
how it really is, also.

It's ok to drop a little venom in the tea
because these ***** have ****** on the carpet
too many times and nobody likes
a loud mouth drunk *****.

Some just have it coming and I'm ok with being the one that gives it to them.
Because I can.
So can you, if you want.

So if it's a toss up between
getting ****** or
rising above,
bend over ***** because
I'm not letting you
stand in my way.

My blood runs thick
for those I love.
If you are mine
you feel it in your bones
and I am the sound
of sugar that makes you wet.

With a warm glow
around my tired bones,
I feel the chemicals
slowly take effect.

It's ok with me, precious,
if you think I'm ugly.
I'll love you just the same.

My hands knew your skin
before we ever touched lips
because you are missing from me.

It's ok my dear,
if we never live
I'll love you just the same.
It's the honey on your lips
that keeps me on my knees.