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.