Blood lettings, for my thigh and wrist
My blood like fire, the swiftness of grace
My flesh is above all and yet disowned
My spirit is fierce as fires doth burn
These creatures will learn…
Middle class brats, bred from base corruption
A softness and kind of conformity for their kind
Take, steal, feed, greed and gluttonous ******!
But oh how they craft their own plights
Little *****, to think they know plight!
Arch, I’ll give them plights, oh I shall give them sullen plight
Tortuous, tormenting, agonising, haunting plights
Plights of the daughter brought before the beast
Plights of the family too poor too common
Plights of the body taken against will
Plights for my blood!
Your petty little girl, plain Jane, boring and dull, like a corpse
Bring her to the beast and she’d how she’ll fair?
Ha! She is nothing of the woman I am…
Take that ****** and let him see the horrors of thy household
Many are alike mine in this lower domain
He’d break like glass to the father who raises his fist!
And you, what of you? Boy Solider…
You speak lies snake! Not a killer, but only of truth!
Sexuality all in tatters, heart forsaken by she cheated
Dearest Mother to tend to thee at all hours
You never tasted poverty, never saw the world
The world through my blood
None of you, not she lifeless and dead
Nor he pitiful and weak, and you another Father but in boy form!
I pray you never have daughters, I hope you take a liking for men
Never breed your filthy bloodline
Middle class ****! Judging, gossiping, lying snake!
But in those 7 weeks you took a taste of thy blood, like the wine at the alter
It was burning hot like magma, it was filling and sickening
Sweet, bitter, sour, to it your eyes once so blind
Saw the world a new
You saw the ****, the abuse, the bulling, the carer, the suicide, the mental illness
You saw your fictional demons in mine
The blood upon my hands, twas ours
It rain through us all, like a fire
It burned and scorched us with the hands of reality
And once it was done, only I was left standing
With one foot out the door, into the world reborn
But my old blood still remains upon you boy soldier
And I carry the new

Your self entitlement is sickening
When did psychosis become so beautiful?
The image of victim hood so appealing

What must you weep for?
When mummy and daddy pay for your carelessness
Your car, your phone, your clothes

The spoiled soul
intent on self destruction
when you can no longer consume
self harm is on fleek

Your little mind a cascade of self inflicted bruises
Throw yourself into a war zone
The day in the human traffic
Sit under a *******'s glare
live under the shadow of poverty
Sleep by the plague streets

Oh you poor pathetic hipster
Here, have the BPD and PTSD
Sleep with one eye open!
With the knife and dog by your pillow
For the abuser that vowed to return
For the shadows that haunt the night
For the insomnia that wracks your brain
For the voices of a demonic opera

This is not special
This is hell
I am NOT special!
The world owes me nothing!

For what I have, what I want
I fight, I strive, I survive
I am not a snowflake
There are many more like me

Who live by the ashes of temples
By the bombs of sands
In the wake of unclean hands
For virginity stolen!
For childhood lost
By war, poverty, disease, ****

Your ****** cry
with all the middle class entitlement
That muffles out the true cry

The cry of a child in the Gaza strip
The cry of forced marriage
The cry of the cancer bearer
The cry of a soldier in the heat of battle
The cry of a mother who could not feed her babe
The cry of the ***** ripped out
The cry of the elderly
The cry of the camps
The cry
to which you find so pretty
which you know nothing of...

You mold it your life
of middle class ****!
Your glorified bedroom
a western modern pit
Iphone, computer, holiday in the sun
Yet you still feel undone?

So you putrid little fetus
Take my hand, we shall go
where your entitlement can not tread
where the ***** are forgotten and suffering are dead

And mental illness has become a trend
suffering is beauty
self harm is fashionable
everyone wants to be a victim
yet these little fetus's
have had the sliver spoon so far up their ***
they can barely stand

I'm a professor who professes to teach beyond the textbook lessons. To approach the very essence of the creative self-expression,

Known as man and known as woman. Call you to a higher ed concessions, to appoint the very purpose of this presupposed oppression,

Of your eyes, and of your mind, I wish you to the other side, of the unguided and unknowing creative self which lies inside.

Cause what is life without perspective, and what are trials if you do not try, and strive beyond your own horizons, and slide down the back of the other side?

Will there be shadows on the road, yes, will you trip and stumble, a couple of times, but never let yourself be doubtful of the potential you hold inside,

To create the future, sculpt the present, and tread the clay where it resides. Because in class is where I see you, but in this life you use your eyes,

To see the self-inside of others, to recreate what's on your mind. To be the difference and the vision, you have the tools to go and try,

And share your view of the horizon, survive the frustration in stride. Become creative in your endeavors, and you’ll bring joy to me and my eyes.