you,
desolate shadow of existence
Sexed up and used by their persistence,
You'r admirations and aspirations
Are the apple cores
Planting seeds in my belly
Despite my resistance.

In this world I don't try too hard
I slide on by
Unable to insure my car
And I don't believe In God, despite what people say
But if God is real
Then by God, ill start to pray
Because earth is a cesspool
And I think it'd be cool
To sprout angel wings when I die
And fly away
But until then I'll slide on by
Sinning in the cesspool
To pass the time

Tipsy Trixie likes to do blow.
Coffee, blow.
    Lunch, blow.
       Shopping, blow.
For Trixie, that's how life goes,
A long line of genocide
    Going up into her nose
Before a cold, bare floor catches Trixie's clothes,
in an attempt to add to her stash
Of street corner cash
All wrapped up in rolls.

Selling herself short just to finance the blow,
She'll soon snort herself cold,
or maybe she'll get **** rich and forever swim in her snow.

But I'm no dreamer,
And trixie's a coke *****.
Another street corner dime
Just looking to score.
When this winter blows over
She'll be sniffing for more.

A young activist with a problem, with something to say,
to prove a point he sat in a glass box for an entire summer day.
The glass got hot with time, and to the entire community's dismay,
he got so hot his skin bubbled, puddled, popped and sprayed.
Now his mother wails over peace , she wanted to cool down the iron fist,
She couldn't even put out the fire that burned her young activist.

There was once a beast,
who shaved the insecurities
of our society
with a blade of ugly
that was too painful to see
Slight cuts made our eyes bleed,
and his aftershave was our precious need.

Dipped in grease
and drowned in ****
Society gives back,
but only to the pegs that fit.

People are eternal guidelines
for universal mistakes.
All our petty *******,
our lies and our fakes.
We close our eyes at night,
and drift off to sleep.
Only to awaken
to expectations too steep.

The heart wants what the heart wants. The brain butts in and **** blocks our most valued, raw emotion. These feelings that could only originate from the pumping muscle in your chest that hurts after hearing tom petty or watching your favorite TV show's last episode fade away into the sunset.
   In a rare scenario where a man rolls off of his lady friend and has lit his nightcap cigarette, and STILL feels the sharp pang of love despite his release,  the man should ******* follow his heart, and become that cliche that 15 year old girls get wet over. Stay with that woman, I don't care if you've killed, pillaged, or ravaged, whether you deserve that pretty girl or not…you chase after her. Don't listen to you're head, you're head is what makes your **** hard. Follow your ******* heart, because I swear on my lucky cigarette that your mind (along with your ****) will give out long before your heart will.

Given in,
Given up.
The leaves sacrificed themselves for winter,
yet the trees didn't seem to give a ****.
The trees make letting things go so easy.
       If we were able to let things go and watch such things fall away from our branches and wither away and die into little colorful piles on the dirt, for colorful sticky little people to jump into and send flying into the air,
     we would have no "care".
               There would no loss, tears, Kurt Cobains or fears
               of losing the ones we love.
There wouldn't be Hallmark cards for issues.
Kleenex would stop making tissues
and start making plastic plants or cheap patio furniture.
Unfortunately, we are not trees.
We cannot let go of our leaves.

The good die young
                         The young die dumb
                                         We didn't iron our shirts
                                                          ­I guess we're not chosen ones.

Blacked out with a pale face,
she can’t stop time but she did find space
to replace
the splinters and lies that filled up her mind.
She got tattoos of things she didn't understand,
and became an expert later.

We’re all better together,
but banana pancakes didn't make her pain go away.

Making love,
a sweaty pit stop
between the sheets.
Politicians,
librarians,
directors,
janitors,
authors,
qu­eens,
kings,
moms,
you,
me,
All guilty of this bittersweet act of sticky significance.
All willing to tangle our limbs every night.

Stuck in this whirlwind, lungs collapsed.
“Cut the grass, go to college, kid.”
Pick up the slack.
Simplicity doesn't exist in a world of
blue collars, white collars,
greasy politics and misfits.
Be the one percent who picks up the rotten scent,
like a truffle pig striving for a win.
I want a girl to pop my thought bubbles with a safety pin.
“Pitter, patter”,
sounds of summer rain and the innocent.
When you have a dream, follow it,
because it’s hard to chase after something when you've forgotten it’s existence.
I don’t know what to do when I grow up,
I refuse to get stuck, but it’s hard to go anywhere in life
when you associate all of your accomplishments with luck.
People who eat people must be the luckiest people in the world,
because they don’t seem to have to worry about
taxes, religion, homework, or girls.
Worrying makes me puke,
and ironically enough,
I doubt that worrying makes cannibals hurl.

I pledge allegiance,
to the flag,
of a united state
that consists of stock market ******,
politics,
****, and hate.

One nation,
without a vision,
under a god,
who dominates all religion.
A "majestic" nation,
who defends itself with nuclear fission.
If you are looking for liberty,
you better keep wishin'.

"Indivisible"
but devised into fifty states of gray.
Freedom of speech itself,
can deprive you of what you need to say.
**** your liberty, just because you can ******* my integrity ,
doesn't mean you can get the best of me.
Just because I dress like this,
doesn't mean I'm a communist.

Smirked at, ****** on, pushed around, beat down
The ***** street corner is Tipsy Trixie's sin city playground.
She charges cheap,
because the black asphalt radiates the smoldering mid-July heat.
She hums "Hey Jude" as she struts up and down 9th Street.
She can't wear layers in the winter, because nobody can see the goods
underneath leg warmers , gloves, furs, and hoods.

Now Trixie is pregnant, 4 months...she's starting to show.
The days are getting longer but the business is slow.
"The Man" doesn't know.
He won't know...he can never know.
Trixie's been warned about the man.
He'll beat her up, and slice her open,
like a Chef Boyardee ravioli can.
Then he''ll sew her up and throw her back on 9th street,
to meet supply and demand.