You writhe and wriggle,
In rooms of smoke and acidic air.
Poised to strike at the very first chance you see.
Emotion no longer has consequence,
When desire overpowers with such ease.
Brains long bereft of tender touches,
Now drool and snarl and ****** and devour.
How can it be that bodies so young are so vile,
As to deliver themselves to the nearest stranger.
It seems the wonderful art of loving is being lost,
To the wicked craft of *******.
Youth are corrupted, influenced, brought low,
By thoughts, ideas and actions centuries behind us.
The time has come for the young and old to touch tenderly, lovingly,
To touch with meaning, dedication, and good intentions.
To touch as though all humans are flowers.
Flowers need tending, attention, they need a steady and consistent hand,
Otherwise they shall falter,
And this is not my desire for the human race.

Tattoo your love of normalcy
Up and down your sleeves
But don't ever look at me
Like that

I know you treat me with disrespect
Because I don't respect myself
I want you to know I have the same wish you do
For me to change into somebody else.

Since it was me who started it,
I must then beg your pardon; it
made sense to let my heartstrings
play the tune of your sweet laughter.

But use my heart as your ink-***
and I'll cry tears blue like ink blots,
asking "why?", I'd ask you "why?"
each time you say that we should stop.

Words run wet right down the page;
'til ***** and *** taste the same;
'til black and blue blend just one shade.
I thought love was something that lived just next-door-but-one to hate.

You would think
A fool who always lies
Would finally surmise
He is known to be unwise
In most other people’s eyes.

You would think
A snake in the grass
Would not have an ***
But it comes to pass
That some are all ***.

You would think
A pile of dog manure
Would smell himself for sure
And that would insure
To show that he's not pure.

You would think
A **** so full of hate
Would not aspire to be great
And instead would wait
Until humility reached his gate.

You would think
Being socially quite blind
No ability to be quite kind
Would someday soften the rind
Of almost any creep you’d find.

You would think
With so many tramps around
And unfunny political clowns
Someone would knock him down;
Teach him something on the ground.

You would think
Some lesson would be due
To give this reprobate a clue
And help him know what to do,
But that might never come true.