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 ****.
And so it happens, swing after swing after swing- Ruptured veins and crimson staining your vision and soul- As hateful and warm as the **** you know you'll burn in- Come what may, you think, as you fall and the kuebiko settles in.
These hands of mine Are perfectly fine Whether I am clapping or snapping They are perfectly benign Even if they can't draw a straight line as they cut their lifelines They serve me well when sending them all to ***** Even though these hands of mine Are perfectly fine They tend to tremble with excitement Whenever something seems to resemble Blood
my heart will never be as heavy as the ones of the children who are forced to learn the anatomy of a gun in two seconds flat. it doesn't matter if you believe in god. god finds calm in violence, god doesn't come here, to the schools that are named after presidents and townspeople who've done good deeds, places that were supposed to be safe.
my heart will never be as heavy as the ones of the parents who sent their kids to school in dresses and ironed khakis and two little pigtails and got them back in body bags. there are no flags here. no Purple Hearts for the kids who couldn't wait long enough to find god.
What's happening? My feeling is keeling over like a rooster Losing my sanity All feeling's vanity.
Where's the knife? I want to survive. I don't want to be trapped in this stage of insecurity I need to let loose, like a goose.
Blood's all over the room. This never-ending feeling of satisfaction what is it? Is this Life? Death? Happiness? Sadness? mAdne$s? I've forgotten how to tell. Do I need help? Am i in vain? In p@in?
I'm laughing. I can't ** stop. Is this humor? Horror? My third eye has closed my actions are no longer futile the heads hanging from the ceiling fan are you pr0ud of me? Mom? Why are you quivering? Why are you running? "WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING? WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS?" That's what your lips are saying. Why're you on the floor? You're still breathing. Are you sleeping? C'mon, wake up. cAN I pLay w!tH yOU, Too?
My first freestyle, based on some psychopathic insanity that I've been struggling with for the past few years.