Organs of dead fellows,
       rings of white
the corpses of high standing felled.

And yet you think my diminishing
                gives you heed to throw

me stained with waste...
                     stigmatized....

Stick knives in your eyes
Fight the evil and horror that lies
Incarnate your words
Into notes that slur
Stick picks in your eyes
Your vision will blur
Your wings will clip when your love roams
You abandoned your eyes
So you will guide yourself with not what you see but with what you hear
Face your fear
To come near and touch the skin of the poor hollow shell you made drown in tears.
She’ll make you sink in the void of sorrow.

Tomorrow always arrives
With its splendid shine
To make hearts feel alive
Filling them with its  eternal light

New days come for good hearts
For those who see the light
But not for those who steal it
As darkness  is all they have

But I don't want it to arrive
For me, tomorrow can't come
To brighten my life
As of it, I am done

Tomorrow can't come for me
For my empty heart to fill
My heart is not to be here
Rather underground with the filth

Dark is what my mind is
But my soul is not
A soul is what I miss
I don't want to know where is at

i still taste your sticky sweet nectar on
my lips from the time you released your
seed onto my perfect *******,
then you traced your fingertips onto
my precious flower and tasted my sweet honey, watching  it drip from your fingertips
as you plastered your mark into my sweet flower--
my breathing becoming shallow from the sensations, thoughts scattered , close to the threshold before a beautiful release of ecstasy .
A perfect deflowering carved into my memory.

People are utterly filthy.
Rags besmirched black and undertone red in blood, and ****,
and tears, and thrown up alcohol bought cheaper than a
***** on Seventh.
Oh, tell me about it.
I saw a dead person once.
Grime under fingernails and teeth carved in gingivitis--
filth of a body really; but still I cry for this begotten soul
until my own hands grow
disheveled in the hue of
sobbing women.
Women are always sobbing.
My good friend with fishnet tights cries and
cries when the bottle breaks and
glass becomes embedded in those brown
fingertips of hers.
What is worse?
The stench of rotting flesh mixed with Persian White
dripping from a needle three years defective,
or the scent of sobbing women soaked
lily-livered in sweat.
With an honest tongue, politely I exclaim:
I’d rather sit with the flesh of the dead man whose filth is rotting
away with the mist of dawn,
then the crying pupils of thou who breathe in
white wind from the heavens
and exhale clouds coated thick
in a thousand vile songs.