Con-artists are con-men Artists they are In relationships they are mixture of three traits Psycopathy or sociopathy Narcissism Machiavellianism too They only care for themselves Not sorry for their actions That hurt others Avoid feelings of guilt Blaming the victim Justifying their actions Such great people they are They are artists with a con It's for the peace of the spirit of the deceased Con-artists may deride For the peace of the spirit I abide CON-ARTISTS I write
The embodiment of shyness Like a nun who took a vow of silence I am not looked at any other way Except a girl who's face is gray But if only people knew, If only people looked through, The keyhole to my imagination, They would think I am a creation Of the devil himself
I may no speak, but trust me I am more predacious than you believe.
I contend That I have Never Hated the guts Of another human being
For the guts Are not Responsible for The actions Taken by their host
Nor are they at fault For the decisions Made by the mind Of a madman
The humble guts Are only but Organs with purpose: Digestion And continuation Of life.
I have Never exclaimed “The nerve of some people!”
For the nerves are merely devices through which a person may harness the sense of feeling
But some people Go on Through life Without feeling Things like Remorse Humility Pain Emotion of any kind
I pity them And I ponder I envy them At times And I am fascinated By them
Sometimes Pity crosses with Envy And I ponder again Intrigued – All three.
I wish to know How to be A wretch A ***** A ******* A criminal An ******* A licentious ***** A nuisance A mean ******* But feel nothing at all
I want to know what it’s like to be cold and callous and without regret or remorse Without a single ******* care in the whole entire world
But all I can do is speculate That it is Unlike anything; Just like nothing at all:
Emptiness without knowing what fulfillment is The coldness of not knowing the definition of temperature The hardness of living life as compressed carbon atoms also known as diamond but without knowing I am or feeling like a jewel
I may not quite myself be a gem But I can feel I can hear loud and clear I love to be whole I love to be warm I love to love Because I am not a wretch I am not a ***** I am not a ******* I am not a criminal Or an ******* Or a licentious ***** Or a nuisance Or a mean, cold ******* – At least for the most part
I am a human-*******-being And I will never try To be anything but.
It was Never guts It was always, Is, And forever will be Folks with their heads up their butts And brains in the drains Who waste Our precious air And time.
One can certainly say They feel it there But alas That is not Where The choice is made Nor is that feeling What upon the action is taken.
One should not hate Another one’s guts and nerves – It should be The mind within the brain Who takes all the blame; Everyone else is just doing their jobs.
(n. a state of exhaustion inspired by acts of senseless violence)
Maybe it's the thrill of adventure that lures you- The thought of getting caught red-handed, The feeling of flesh parting and revealing, The spray of fresh warm blood on your skin.
Maybe it's a thirst that spur you forward- The need for the adrenaline rushes, The desire for vengeance or payback, The want to fulfill your deep blood lust.
And so it happens, swing after swing after swing- Ruptured veins and crimson staining your vision and soul- As hateful and warm as the hell you know you'll burn in- Come what may, you think, as you fall and the kuebiko settles in.