Larry walked to the store,
To buy a pack of smokes,
He's had enough, he want's no more,
He's sick of everything; so he walked.

He entered through a stain'd glass door,
asked for his brand and waited a while.
He saw reflections on the floor,
He saw his ugly crooked smile.

He paid and was ready to head home,
but suddenly, there was a sound.
The glass broke as a brick was thrown,
and blood splattered all around.

Larry got up, his head was red,
He dragged himself out of the store,
Laughing loudly as he bled,
He lit a smoke and laughed some more.

He saw the guy who threw the brick,
Was it him,... well nevermind,
He yelled : ' Oi stop there you *****!'
And started rushing from behind.

They ran a good mile and a half,
before the guy was too weak to run,
Larry smoked and let out a laugh,
And said to his victim:'now you're done!'

Now, Larry angry as he was,
didn't go straight for the ****.
He wanted to have some fun,
And he knew then that he will.

'Kneel' he screamed at the guy,
as he drew close step by step,
'Kneel or I swear you'll die!'
He shouted out this final threat.

The guy afraid beyond his mind,
kneeled and looked him in the eye,
The kick that followed made him blind,
And he only let out a sigh.

Again the blood shed on the floor,
As Larry struck the final stroke.
A man's life was here no more.
And Larry lit another smoke.

Tonight's the night
We fight or die
And you can bet
It will be violent
But the aggression
That we have to bring
Is the only chance we have
To make a change.


-
by Aleksander Mielnikow

I stalk success with greed
I think i'm high on ****.
An apparent aggression.
No room for depression.

No time to rest.
To success, i,m a pest..
i follow her everywhere..
I'm not a victim of fear.

Success is so proud;
a fact without a doubt.
still i pursue with pride.
my emotions, i cannot hide.

strength apparently spent.
still, i'll never relent.
i will chase your vagour..
adrenaline absolutely pours.

i'm a man with purpose;
a victim of an overdose.
i'm drowned in optimism..
i slay every subjective criticism.

I write as I cry as I drink as I am,
A broken little man with sad dreams in his head,
The fingers that choke me still open the clam,
To find no pearls in but still leave it dead.

I love as I sleep as I **** as I want,
A sad little boy trapped in old man's skin,
The hands that awoke me still clumsy and blunt,
Dig my eyes out before I begin.

I dream as I yearn as I fail as I try,
A bitter young man with blood on his mind,
The hands that are on me want you to die,
While gasping for air desperate and blind.

I come as I am as you were as we'll be,
With gray in my heart and blond in my hair,
I was who I was, and now that's no more Me,
The blood still runs but brain can't be repaired.

I scream as I stay as I do as we bleed,
Whith heart that of *Bundy and the brain of Baudlaire,
So you will forgive me, aggression and greed,
Satan, have pity on my long despair.

Can you feel the power coursing through you,
disguised as adrenaline,
when you swing your arm and before the blow even hits,
you feel all your anger and frustration fade, so now all you want is to fight?
You wanna kick and pitch a fit,
till your old ****** arms
are covered up by new scars,
but nothing like that matters because you're the last man standing.
Maybe the other boy, curled up on the ground now
with his arms thrown over his head,
broke your nose and made it even more crooked than before,
but you're the little freak who no one thought could win.
But you entered in
from a world where everyone called you ****
to be the freak who everyone only saw as a ****,
thin-shouldered and quieter than the boys he fought.

Maybe your quietness and meek, weak, malnourished look fooled you and all of them,
for look into your eyes in the mirror and see the gold and brown fighting through the green sheen,
the fire for everything you hate, all the things you're hitting and spitting on when you're through with them,
and when you stare into your own eyes you might recognize yourself.

Don't be fooled, boy, you're weak and you're sick,
your arms aren't thick
which muscle and dark hair,
and nothing about you is real,
with fabricated reactions and premeditated sentences,
all programmed into your brain, which fights itself in its confusion,
screaming, and smoking from the fight with itself, about what should be happening with your emptiness and with your bony chest.

Boy, you're hardly that,
just a *** who stares after the other guys,
but you're not sure if you're gay, because you really just want to be just like them.
Boy, at least you fall for pretty girls,
shorter and daintier than you, with more mellow hearts but stronger emotions,
and passions for poetry (not the kind you possess, rooted in your inability for expressions)
and always with love for another boy, a real boy to grow into a man.

Thursday, October 11, 2018
6:01 AM

I wanna think god's thoughts, and Mr. Newton, Issac said,
After him. So I joined the queue.

Fundamental heretic is what I am.
Jesus was a heretic. Ask any Pharisee.

Evaluation and appraisal, worship and praise,
who told you to do that? A shepherd kid?

A lonely boy under the stars in a peaceful valley,
beside still waters. Like, Bob Dylan at twelve. Singin' along.

Worthy, so worthy, sang the boy, never knowing the role of
y after worth in setting the appraising price or prize.

What's it worth to know death has no sting? A song?
Then sing, soft, don't wake the dead.

I've been floating through life in the middle of the ocean,
Looking for other fish while I'm questioning my notions,
I find myself a pink fish that starts to play with my emotions,
These waves used to be calm but now they're causing commotion,
Intimate, then not,
Dedicate my thoughts,
To a furry thot,
That hasn't yet caught,
The fact that I am in love,
With her and raise her above,
The tide of loneliness to breathe,
Why is it so hard to perceive.

The pink fish darkened to red,
Then slit her wrists till they bled,
Stained with the thought of being ugly,
But she's beautiful and snuggly,
And kind and spreads good vibes,
But she tells herself these lies,
That leads to depression,
And sometimes aggression,
Whether she's conscious of the way she makes me feel or not,
I'll deal with things the same way, living out the plot.