Someday
You'll need my help.
I'll just say
"*******".

Chipmunk, Chipmunk,
Where could you be?
Maybe in this pretty little tree?
I wish to meet you,
And become your friend.
Maybe I could crush to your little head.
Just promise me you won't scream,
If your blood travels downstream.
So come out little Chipmunk,
If you dare.
Ill be waiting,
Right here,
I sware.

This mountain is tallest when someone is on top.
Tucked an olive branch in a fire,
threw my heart in a file and
I don't feel bad at all.

I keep aspiring to **** myself,
and I can only tell a handful of people.
I can only tell people who don't care.
I can only hope nobody minds.
I can only wish and wish.
I'm so sick of violent people,
and violet eyes and knuckles.

I don't feel bad at all.
I am a final boss and a bad guy,
and a villain and an entrepreneur
in the science of self-exploitation
for nobody but nobody I like.
I'm sick of hearing white girls sing,
and yell, and talk in high voices.

I'm sick of chains and strings and people.
I'm sick of songs that say nothing.
I need revenge, but mercy so selfish,
so counter intuitive.
Must feel like common sense.

You use my greatest fears
as slings, rocks and arrows
meant to draw not blood, but tears
hitting the earth like meteors.
You bend and twist my limbs
in a figurative way.
You train my hopes like a dog,
telling them to stay
and you never come back for them.
You stockpile sharpened words
and hails of insults.

You used to be what I called friend,
but I was always aware of your simplicity.
Perhaps it was how explicitly
you framed desire and hatred
in the same portrait.
You made sub-cultures fit into your own identity
and always found a way
to make me feel unwanted.

You were a ****** friend,
but the way you brought about the end
like a hammer crushing the skull
of the decades I have left to live,
THAT,
I'm not sure I can forgive.
But when I wake up tomorrow,
and I look into the mirror,
I will not see your face staring back
but you always will.

And for this reason I still find it in myself
to feel pity for you.
The same pity I feel
for those short of food and clean water
because for every time
you put my dreams to the slaughter
you put another notch in your belt.
The same one that keeps you fastened to your hate.
You'll be padlocked there until you find the key,
hidden in your own humanity.
To win against hate,
you have to not want to participate in it.
When it comes to mine,
it's still there,
but everyday it grows dimmer.
Not dim as in, you,
but less strong.

So this is our swan song.
You asked me to write you a poem
and after today,
I just couldn't say no.

Off into the deep dark woods,
With a wicker box of goods.
Jar of jam, loaf of bread,
Doctor prescribed rest in bed.

The forests single trail,
To far in to fail,
Sliver of red dashing,
Amidst the rains lashing.

Mother went to town for the weeks end,
To go see childhoods friend.
So the cottage is free for me,
No danger did I see.

My grandmothers rickety house bore signs of age,
In her garden she grew sage,
To keep away spirits of rage.
But her herbs seemed to be dead.

Voices of doubt whispered in my head.
Is she here, her body is near,
But is her mind, and that smile kind,
She said when her sage shows signs of age,
It's time to run like theirs a fire on stage.  

Despite my feeling
I opened the door
Scent sent me reeling
I stumbled to the floor.

Stood by the fire-place
Was a face out of place,
A man in my grans robes,
I felt prickles in my ear lobes.

He smiled a grim grin of many teeth,
Eyes of sin screamed a soul thief.
I turned to run,
But he grabbed and yelled ***.

"What about my treats and sweets,
Don't leave," the man tugged at my sleeve.
"I was going to get you pickings of thyme"
I said to the impersonating slime.

"I'll cook you a beef steak."  
"Magnificent" said the rake.
Gran kept steak for me,
Why I ate it she didn't see.

Oil and thyme, in the frying pan.
Waiting on time, heat reddens the crying Pan.
When ready I bashed the pan down on his head,
Praying he smashed on the ground dead.

Then I took a sharp silver knife,
To his throat, to end his life.
Blood, arterial spray, enters the fray. Chaos rampant here,
The scent of her body near.

I went to her room then fell to my knees in doom.
I carried her limp frame to the sodden ground,
Buried her beneath a mound.

Then grabbed sage stricken by age,
Put it in the devils shocked screaming mouth,
Then put his body ablaze to send his dark soul streaming south.

The Dark Pariah and The Mouth Breather went to go get a jump start on their blackmail and their payback

All the kissup's
All the suckup's
Who think they're the best thing since sliced bread with the crust cut off
Who pick on people's foibles and leave their self-image in shambles
Not to mention all the narcissists who claim to have coined certain phrases we all use, then pucker up to the ***** of those who can keep up with the Joneses

They were going to make this world go belly up
Remove all of the potholes and speed bumps in life

The Dark Pariah wrote his plan in chicken scratch
And The Mouth Breather wrote his in calligraphy

The Mouth Breather's plan was to kick start a new denomination of hero worship
All followers must give themselves rug burn and stick up three banks in thirty minutes then put their plunder in the collection plate on Tuesday mass

The Dark Pariah's plan was to create music to their ears
That would make them hopscotch off a cliff and free fall to their deaths
This was part and parcel for his sham to exact his vengeance

But ipso facto they never followed through with their plans due to sheer laziness
And now they're both dominated by remorse and online FAQ's