Ten minutes til the perculator
Brings me from grime to grind.
And in the morning stars are setting,
As soon the sun will rise...

On a world that I hate to hate.
On a world that loves to hate me.
I have to go outside and want to die.
I cannot stay in and hide.

There are monsters in the field
And they've got the taste of blood.
There is no end in sight.
I cake my face with mud.

They always know to find me,
Though I move in patterns, rare.
Deep inside, I turn inside,
I deny dispair.

I know I'll never beat them.
I avoid, but can't back down.
And so I'll take the beating,
But I'll try to rend their skin.

I know just how they see me.
The same as they did then.
Silent words that we all know
Do not go unknown for sin.

The time has metered nothing.
It hasn't changed a thing.
If authority lets loose it's leash,
The dogs would gnash again.

The eyes upon me see distainly
What they want to hurt.
Only, just, to keep alive
What every monster wants.

Ten minutes til the perculator
Has darkly roasted beans,
That was ground into powder,
Like the bullets in my lean.

The night will soon be like
A blanket ripped from me
To show me in the basking light
For all the world to see.

They'll say that I'm a monster.
I always was so strange.
I was a trouble-maker, boiler maker
And the only one to blame.

They'll say I was a bad seed.
When all of them do know
The type of horror that befell
From the monsters long ago.

In times of triumph I did learn
How best to bide the time.
They think I'm so predictable.
They're thinking colorblind.

For all the worth of quiet,
And to rest this savage pain,
And retribute the misery,
(It won't happen again)

And yet you'll cry for justice.
Say it's never served.
If you used measured all they put on me,
They'll get what they deserve.

The victim becomes monster,
The world fears the marters more
Than any of the heathan clan...
Ten minutes, nothing more.

o, darling
daylight has never been your most flattering
light

and how could it be?
you never sleep,
because life is but a dream

like that old
children's song
goes

dear god of boujee
women, the ones with
bloodstained louboutins

let me autotune myself to sound inhuman,
say my prayers to
you

in the dying light
of the atl
freeways

my only hymn i have to
offer is that of
migos

and instead of bread and wine
i have lean and
xanax

o, darling
our eyes will never
age

and new money, who dis?
will forever be the closest thing
we have to a mantra

She was
a shy, sensitive
young woman,
with small
hands and
lean, long
fingers that
beautifully
graced the
pencil as
she wrote
poetry, or
rather, the
whispers of
her heart
within her
small leather
notebook,
whenever
she became
curious, her
dark, lustrous
brown eyes
would glimmer
in fascination,
her entire world
would become you,
she was not
particularly
beautiful
but her heart
was pure,
she would
remain hidden
through her
poetry
as though
she was
listening to
classical
music,
the streams
of violins
are the
winds
tousling
her midnight
hair,
she was
a dreamer
of the night,
though
quiet
In her
demeanor,
always
deep
In thought,
perhaps
trying to
understand
and shape
you, or
thinking
about the
simple
beauty
of the
moment,
she would
see the stars
when everyone
walked past,
to appreciate
what others
could not see,
as a light
hidden
among the
leaves,
she was
the depth
once unseen,
now clear to
the one who
came closer,
she would
place her
palm on
her fair
face when
deep in
listening,
as if it
was, the
painted
portrait of a
poet,
she always
held a cup
of warm tea,
being content
In her recluse,
until she would
look into your
eyes, and
you saw
through
her
soul

They said If I took cough syrup that I could die
Slowly I gave the escape from reality a try
But I drank more than the recommended amount

After a while I lost count
The liquid tastes best mixed with sprite
Friends pushed away , and confusion in sight
The devil brought out my innocence one night

I layed crying on the bathroom floor
And the devil out the door
The purple liquid down the drain
And nothing to escape from the pain