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.

How clean is clean
when the cleaning began
from the floor of a sunken ship?
Barnacles grace the walls in the place
of family, or a familiar face.

When filth is a given, and given
in projection to the overtly empathetic
as a matter of course, why implore?

Because you don't implore,
you explore as an entity
reaching for a meaning.

The question becomes,
do you fight, or do you invite
the coming cessation?

Even with a gun, and a view to ****,
the power the bullet affords
would surely fail to thrill you.
The best charlatans paint your hands red,
as you're sleeping in bed, preemptively.

Let the liars lie, let the builders connive.
Uninterrupted access to their own confines.
To Narcissus, the cool nod is colder than the knife.

Let the liars lie, let the builders connive.
When the company you keep requires the sacrifice
of your authenticity and your reality, just leave.

It'll never get good. It'll never get great.
It'll never be worth the investment.