You cared for nothing degrading each unknown gracious soul a nameless acquaintance as a victim in the wake of your lifelong search for self-affirmation leading to naught. How I hope you slink into the suicidal tidal waves of darkness you deserve. How I find myself hoping to get the chance of one final gluttonous glance seeing the shock sewn into your timeless mask staring out of the casket as just another casualty of conceded conceit and craving. How I relish in the feeling of the the grass of your grave growing from your physical spoils springing between my tickled toes raising my vengeful vitality up my spine until it erupts upward as unbound laughter at the man you thought you might have been. Aye, Good riddance to the dead and may you rot in your own insipid stench like the **** stained lining of your soul.

Maybe the greatest injury yet
was all too soon after we met
and with eyes and ink still wet
you tried to **** me with the alphabet

I'm not sure if death is an injury
but from the Rockies to the Yangtze
If you read any Bukowski
You may never rip that knife free

There are those poems that complete you
and also those that abscise;
Taking a little love from behind your ribs
and a little light from behind your eyes

i've skinned me knees and i've watched them bleed. i didn't do it on purpose, it just happened when i fell for you.