"backstory" poems
The professor said
"Family therapy is like a Pie Graph
Everyone in the family contributes their own piece of pie.
When people leave
there's a chunk of pie missing
and the other members of the family
have to take on some of those roles to fill the pie."
Here's my theory:
Everyone in the family has their own whole pie.
Categorizes each housemate as a piece of it.
how they view them in their family.
how they relate to them,
Imagine a home
Mom and her four daughters.
Step dad, his daughter and son.
imagine three bedrooms.
The adults taking up one of them.
let's look at the Mother,
Her four daughters
all with different fathers
she knows how to raise children.
The daughters all know how to
Be
Children, be
Sisters, be
older or younger than each other.
The step-father knows how to have
A Wife,
One Daughter,
A Son.
Well Step-brother leaves the house.
Susie has a child at fifteen.
what does
her pie look like now?
She used to have a boyfriend,
four sisters,
a mother, father.
Now lost a brother
gained a baby.
She only knows how to be a child.
let's look at the mother.
She hasn't learned: Grandchild
but she knows how to raise a baby.
lets look at the step-father, lost his son, gained four daughters,
what's another one?
The sisters, lost their brother, a role model.
Exchanged for this this new baby.
another sister?
everyone's pie is empty in some parts.
judging by some other
dead white guys theory
when who you are doesn't line up
with who you see yourself as,
that's when people develop
Mental illness
Well I wouldn't call it ill, but let's count the bruises.
That baby is going to grow up as her mother's sister.
Suzie is going to seek the comfort of men.
Her sisters are going to constantly fight between calling themselves auntie
and Big Sis.
like tossing themselves on either side of the barbed wire fence is cause for death.
The farther we go back in each family member's backstory
the more slivers of pie we find
Georgia has autism,
Carley diagnosed depression,
Rosie an abusive relationship of 10 years.
Clover is quiet.
The Brother, schizophrenic, autistic, bipolar.
Any number of names they can slap on him.
He doesn't live there anyhow.
isn't human.
Muffle the sister that says she miss him.
hit her, cut her, lock her up.
This was a case study.
I lived with this family for four years.
unintentionally filled up parts of their pie.
I was Son.
Older brother.
Boyfriend.
Father.
When I stopped being a fly on the wall
Stopped seeing how their story was developing.
I didn't have any pie left.
Feb 7, 2016
Feb 7, 2016 at 1:25 PM UTC
there is no such thing as an antihero,
only a villain
who has found an exuse,
an antagonist who can speak more prettily than
all the others
who can lie holes straight through
the hero's
heart,
find their place in the universe
and blot it out on the map because
the universe
does not tend towards anything
but solitude.
you will find yourself all alone.
you will find yourself all
alone
and you can snap the neck of every doll you own but
despair will never be anything more than
an unrequited love, an
attachment that you never grew out of, a
high school crush that you stapled to your heart so as you grew it was like
a gastric bypass
you cannot hold as much love in your heart
as your mother
said you could
but you can kiss and sigh and with every moue you'll wonder just
why
your chest feels fit to burst when you get any deeper than
touch
heart fit to rupture you are the main villain
of every book
i've read
the antagonist in every story you are
the angry girl whose doll parts
lay in pieces
at her feet
whose bomb will detonate if you get too close
{the character i could relate to the most the character i hated the most the character
i talked to whenever i could and
memorized every line to replay, god
i hate
the way you speak
and i want
to hear
it more}
i ripped out your staples and added my own.
{despair will never reciprocate but
i understand you i
do
because we are the same and i hate you because
you hate yourself
and i could give you nightmares every night and
listen to your motives
every
morning
'people are disgusting'
you said
as if it was
a revelation}
you're not ****** up, just out of luck
because four-leaf clovers can't survive droughts.
you are seventyeight percent water
and every drop you spent on
drowning
the background characters
and every doll on your bedroom floor
{i love the way you cry when you laugh because every time
i hope
that one, that one tear
is the final drop wrung from the shroud
of a sailor a burial at sea
and you will crumble
into
dust}
you angry girl your eyes
are a yellowing bruise on the storyline
your backstory is a rash
on the protagonist's hands
and all your inner demons told you you were not alone but
you explained them away and
appeals to pity left you empty.
i will rip out all your staples i
will make you
seventyeight percent
saltwater
my heart is a mirror you can find yourself there and
reassemble yourself
from all your broken parts
i will be the blueprint from which
you rebuild
yourself
{a story is nothing
without
a villain}
Jul 25, 2013
Jul 25, 2013 at 3:25 AM UTC
Once upon a time
There was a girl who dared to dream
In the cold, air conditioned room of reality she sat
For hours on end
Suddenly, her rescuer appeared
Golden yarns of sunshine leaked through the windows,
Wrapping themselves around her,
Pulling her away
In the blink of an eye
She was no longer in the place of gloom
But in a magnificent garden
Where flowers of every kind, like her,
Dared to bloom
She tarried there
For hours, days, weeks
Sitting amongst the blossoms
Admiring them and befriending
The other children who would arrive from their own prisons
Each backstory unique,
Some grotesque, some disheartening
But that mattered not
For the children would wrap their fingers
Around each other's cold hands
And begin again
In this new, dreamlike place
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 10:00 AM UTC
Dear two year old me,
You've been walking for a year now,
And oh! The places you'll go!
The people you'll see, and love, and hurt.
This is your superhero's backstory, you'll see.
Dear four year old me,
I'm so proud of you,
Losing yourself in books already,
Keep your smile ready, darling,
It's going to be rough for a while.
Dear six year old me,
Those kids who threw pine cones
Called you ugly at the bus stop
And made you run home in tears,
Baby Girl, they don't matter.
Dear eight year old me,
That teacher who sneered "just like your mom"
like a barbed insult and a doomed future
was just a mean confused white lady,
Who never even tried to get to know you or your wonderful mother.
Dear ten year old me,
Playground marriages were just for show
Everyone else got remarried day by day
You only had eyes for one, but that's okay
Your loyalty will bring you happiness, one day.
Dear twelve year old me,
You really are too young to date,
and I know everyone else is doing it,
but none of them last, baby girl,
waiting is totally okay.
Dear fourteen year old me,
You've been in love for so long,
It's really just like breathing, isn't it?
But you're too young to know what toxic is
Don't worry, *** you'll be so much better.
Dear sixteen year old me,
It hurts. I know it hurts. It hurts so much.
You'll teach yourself to keep busy day by day
But honey your lungs only burn because you've been
Breathing smoke for so long fresh oxygen tastes poisonous.
Dear eighteen year old me,
You'd think me soft, now. Emotional. Weak.
But crying is okay, sweet one, wanting hugs is okay
Feeling used is okay. Wanting love is okay.
It's going to be okay.
Aug 6, 2015
Aug 6, 2015 at 11:29 AM UTC
there's a hippie girl waiting for me
in a coffee shop a few blocks up the road.
she has no idea im not coming.
it's fun pretending to be someone else entirely
assuming a new role, backstory, character development
it's like being an actor, except there's no camera capturing
my performance, no crew writing my perfect li[n]es.
so there's a hippie girl in a coffee shop,
and i'll meet her there in a few minutes
and she'll believe that she's met the real me.
meanwhile, that coward can be found hiding.
don't ask where- I'm still looking for him myself.
Dec 7, 2011
Dec 7, 2011 at 3:31 AM UTC
They call it guilt, John.
That's what the voice in the dark of the night,
would always whisper upon me.
But I was deaf, so I would never hear it.
Oh, it's just what they'll all say,
"It's not your fault",
That your brother died,
That you're a broken husk of a man.
Worry not, worry not, fair snakeskin,
fair caterpillar,
surely you, too,
will shed your skin and fly, fly away.
But he doesn't get to fly now does he?
No all he exists is,
as a sad, cold face,
dead, under the refraction of light,
that pool's death gleams.
Hmm, but you enjoy this don't you,
John, the voice said to me.
The tragic backstory, the shameless reason.
For such gleeful ecstasy, surerly,
The small price of the lie called brother,
of innocence, of life,
of something you never really had, something you never really lose,
what an even sacrifice, John, what a fair toll,
in fact how favored are you, to so enjoy,
self-flagellation.
I won't tell if you won't, she says, whispered. Why always a she and who? It finishes anyways; whether I want it to...
Spencer died,
So I can have,
my whip in hand.
That is my truth.
Mar 21, 2017
Mar 21, 2017 at 12:03 PM UTC
Our paths were never meant to cross.
I was just testing the waters when I caught you staring.
It started something grand and beautiful and exhilarating.
And that should have been the end of this backstory.
But we're just starting and we are still mere strangers
Me falling for you has always been a scary thought
Can you honestly love me?
When you hold my hand and touch my hair,
When you whisper secrets to my ears and make me feel special,
Are those moments real?
People always say that I have these walls around me,
That I am someone who's never gonna let somebody in.
But they never saw how higher and thicker your walls are.
You are so good at hiding what you feel that it made me think
That maybe what I'm feeling is a product of my imagination
A part of my subconscious waiting for someone
Who will try to understand all the layers of my insecurities
Someone who will paint my skin with his warm touches
Someone who will kiss my lips and tell me everything's okay.
Someone who will simply love the complicated me.
I'm giving this a chance
Even though the pessimist in me is screaming,
Telling me to run the opposite direction.
I'm giving you a chance
Because I want to give me a chance
To fall in love and be happy.
Please, do not hurt me.
I'm fine with unrequited love
But please, do not lie to me.
Do not call me at 3AM and tell me you can't sleep without hearing my voice.
Do not tell me you can't imagine your future without me.
Do not promise me these unless you're sure.
Because my heart is fragile and my bones are tired.
I've always been sad but you,
You remind me of the warm sunlight caressing my face.
The butterflies in my stomach awoke with your giddy laughter.
You endlessly surprise me with your actions.
Your smile is my happly place.
You are my happy place.
This.
This is the end of our backstory.
The rest, I hope, will be a beautiful history.
Feb 13, 2016
Feb 13, 2016 at 2:55 AM UTC
Glass bottle empty,
Thirst hardly slowed.
Something spins,
Focus can't focus.
But so thirsty.
Legs go limp
When you try for more water,
Spilling half
Until your lips,
Dry and cracked
Find the opening,
And flood the desert.
You're still coughing here and there.
And your mind goes wild.
Thinking of all the things
You usually think
Except with more intensity.
Because suddenly,
Everything has a
Morose backstory.
And some of it scares you.
Now you can feel
Each ****** thought
Take power physically.
And that is terrifying
And sensational.
You try to calm your frazzled
Head by holding it,
And focusing on
The water-
A normal task of drinking
That hardly feels normal.
But that's all you can do.
Aug 28, 2014
Aug 28, 2014 at 9:51 PM UTC
A massacre warped becomes justified. A pack of wolves wear the skin of sheep they have killed, as the sheep ran. Swam against the current. Electrocuted, drowned and burnt till they renounce individualism and yell from the rooftop, hanging by their frightened feet, that they were wrong! Then they are sent to a prison to be ***** or killed. A super-power did this because they didn’t like people being themselves and hoping for more. Opposing a regime that wanted no opposition.
Dying foreigners’ swarm wishing that they only had a heart can get one in a week or two. No problem, if no questions are asked.
Those people that only wish to become more than a number become only that which they strive against. A digit in a program. A point on a graph. A blood type can condemn you to death, and have parts of you delivered to those who think kidneys magically sprout out of the ground.
Naivety and gratitude need no backstory in light of their desperation.
Innocence is rewarded and knowledge is condemned.
But, unfortunately this injustice cannot be stopped by signing a petition or shaking a frail man’s hand, so we must ask; is there another way we can mend?
Jun 12, 2013
Jun 12, 2013 at 7:50 PM UTC
Some people claim that special intuition
to know another person's thoughts and mind.
I do not.
I did not read her like a book, so I read her like a poem.
Her words did not arrange a neat picture of who she was.
So I listened.
I felt
and I paused
straining to hear every moment.
Envisioning.
I reflected, then I listened some more.
I saw patterns repeated,
the strain
and the wince
and I tested hire they felt on my own face
After learning a bit of backstory I flipped back through
what she had said and let the context take effect.
I saw stanzas, couplets, and rhythm
I did not analyze,
I felt,
Hearing her song-story.
I might be wrong. I might have projected too much of myself, or glanced over a detail.
I can not recite her story or show you her heart,
but I listened to her poem and that is all that I can do.
Jun 6, 2018
Jun 6, 2018 at 10:58 PM UTC
My aunt passed away
almost a year ago.
And I was never super close with her
but the things I remember
are important.
My whole family
Aunt Florence
Uncle Rodger
Aunt Debbie
and Romy
came down
and Stayed with Me, Ma, Joci and Grandma
when I was a kid.
I remember she kissed
me
and hugged me
in our living room.
And I felt the love
without words;
it just came out of her body
in waves.
Her small voice
was loud with it.
I am beginning to learn
Yukimi
like a backstory
and
her body
teaches me about love
in a different
but completely nostalgiac
way.
Jan 2, 2012
Jan 2, 2012 at 6:22 PM UTC
I have found the one with whom my soul is in a budding love.
In this, for simplicity, we'll call him Mr. Blue.
Not jade, nor gold, nor copper rust,
but a morning glory hue.
He's kindled a light inside my bones,
and left my thoughts askew.
Tell me is this true?
Mr. Blue, what say you?
There was another when you came;
let's spare his name,
just call him Shame.
He warrants no backstory,
but I'll give it just the same.
Shame walked around the world with a silver spoon a-gleaming.
So when I looked inside his mind,
I found words with little meaning.
There was no lasting glow from he;
my bones rapidly re-dulled.
Though I spoke and moved quite freely,
apathy manned my body's hull.
So again, Mr. Blue,
I demand your reassurance,
that this flutter will soon cease,
that I'll have light in abundance.
Mr. Blue, don't ignore me,
I know you've read my mind.
So you should know that on these questions,
there's a strict limit of time.
Or maybe you're just human.
Mr. Blue, can you read thoughts?
Or am I expecting too much,
for you to connect invisible dots.
I'm sorry Mr. Blue,
I see now that it's my doing .
I'm scared to let a light shine,
to let it glow without flitting.
I would promise I'd do better,
but, alas, I know not how.
Seventeen never taught me this,
just endless ways to plow.
So Mr. Blue, I'm sorry,
but this glow will flicker more.
For I am much too guarded,
to let it shine for sure.
Until the day it gleams with fire,
I may seem far away,
but really I'm just waiting it out,
to see how long you stay.
But if you pass this test of will,
and break down all my walls,
I swear to you,
Mr. Blue,
you'll have my heart and all.
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 6:53 PM UTC
It's strange how I could fit so much in a shoebox. A shoebox made for a pair.
There is this specific shoebox I have tucked underneath my folding bed.
A relatively new one, with its glossy lid and blunt corners.
I can name its contents by heart.
A letter dated September 27.
Two pairs of tickets to movies.
A priceless photo of you as a kid on horseback.
Six receipts I managed to save from places where we've shown our true colors.
Nine bus tickets.
One valentine's card with a doodle I'd frame in the Louvre for everyone to appreciate.
A list that says ten things but actually has twenty. My favorite one being "I love that you love me. I cannot even."
Two poems.
Five photographs of us, two of you, one stolen, most with teeth, some wacky.
An ice cream tin. I can still taste the pistachio and see our smiles while we shared and fought over who gets the tin.
A notebook holding a sacred bucketlist, boxes unticked.
This box is small, but it keeps a lot more than that.
It cradles a semi-epic backstory.
It possesses a playlist inaudible to all, except for two people.
It confines a few arguments, little squabbles, and maybe a tiny bit of resentment.
More than that, it is abundant in affection, concern, last-minute cuddles, kisses given and taken.
I won't deny it, I'm a sentimental person.
I've been keeping and snatching little parts of you and placing them in plain sight around me.
Where I can see them, see you, when I flip through my books or open my wallet for change.
But now you're gone, hidden from view. Diminished inside four corners, right under where I sleep at night to forget you.
It's strange how I could fit so much in a shoebox. This shoebox I made just for you and I.
Mar 8, 2017
Mar 8, 2017 at 8:24 AM UTC
Look, I never said I was that smart.
I say stupid stuff all the time.
It's not like I'm always awake.
I'm rewriting my life story.
Impossible?
Maybe.
But we all wish some parts of our lives were different.
I'm rewriting my DNA make my skin less red, my spine less curved, my mind less distracted, to make my body hurt less.
I'm rewriting my backstory, one where I didn't worry about much other than my life at home. I never told anybody how dangerous my life used to be...
Mar 21, 2017
Mar 21, 2017 at 12:25 AM UTC
X-Men doesn’t make sense without you here to explain.
Wolverine’s backstory is hard to ascertain.
Geeking out without you just isn’t the same.
I don’t know what comics are worth reading.
And the covers to these graphic novels are so misleading.
I’m trying to expand my comic knowledge without you and not succeeding.
The Game Cube is just gathering dust.
Two player to single player, trying to readjust.
Playing multiplayer alone feels so unjust.
“I’ll see you soon.” You say.
But I know that only means if you don’t work every day.
I’ll just spend our time apart wishing you weren’t six hours away.
I’m sick of Facebook being the only way we communicate.
And even though hearing your voice on the phone is great,
I’m starting to wonder if it’s worth the wait.
I’m sorry if I’m getting hostile.
Lately it’s been hard to smile.
Sorry baby, it’s just been awhile.
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 10:02 AM UTC
Wonderful town of Whitby, hundreds of marketplaces,
England's own astounding alleys of traditional aces,
Many things this obscure area tends to hide,
the most enjoyable boating docks and brine and quayside.
With cobbled streets aplenty,
Whitby is where I'd like to be,
no matter where on earth,
Whitby is the best for me.
Wonderful town of Whitby, Honour be upon it's history,
But how it's backstory came to be differs as a mystery.
Once upon a supposed legacy of legend and lore,
One quite possibly never seen before.
With it's Mystic vampiric anomaly,
Whitby is certainly my place,
no matter where on earth,
I'd love to be upon this space.
Wonderful town of Whitby, many books wrote about it,
with Whales, abbeys and vampires, it's hard to doubt it,
rare and beautiful creatures, dance within the mist,
Humpback, White and Minkeys on this list.
With it's Whales and sightings,
Whitby is my Sweven,
no matter where on earth,
This town is my Heaven.
Jun 10, 2017
Jun 10, 2017 at 7:03 AM UTC
*Every tick,
my clock drips,
my eyes leak,
with heavy lids.
Yes, I was sick. . .
and they left me,
when I was weak.*
*The friends I thought,
were for real,
only spend time for chills.*
*I'm not cool,
but never a fool.
I just want this life's
better piece.*
*To give me someone
who never kills,
a heart so frail, as me.*
*A man,
a lifetime friend.
My missing puzzle piece.*
That everlasting kiss!
Who could promise:
" In sickness and in health with me "
But in all of these,
I know,
God is with me.
" Always giving . . .
. . . always watching, "
Making a better backstory.
Mar 22, 2016
Mar 22, 2016 at 10:53 PM UTC
I read your text
and it kind
of hurt me,
I don’t know
what happens next
Or what lies you said
In your circle,
Planning to **** me twice,
That ain’t nice—
Every time
I think of you,
I’m on the brink,
bout to sink fast—
Nah scratch that—
Or maybe not—
Mind’s a maze
When I rewind
To the tapes of
Moments left
broken
When you
called me back,
Wantin’ to
make amends,
I hesitate cuz
you had a
plan to manipulate,
Suffocate me with
Unsolved karma,
Throw salt on my
Mistakes,
Then go crying
to your mama—
Like I’m Freddy
in your nightmares—
Trauma!
Thinking she
got advise,
A hotline for lies,
She ain’t curing your—
Drama!
I just wanna escape,
You still hold onto
The hate,
Throw me
back onstage,
Bout to break me—
Spotlight blazing shame,
Feeling the flames
Burning my fate—
crossed my name out—
Oh no,
Here goes
my fat ex,
Driving in a
Fedex truck,
Shipping hate,
like it’s Christmas Day,
Almost got me fed up!
About to ****** the
messenger
with a bullet
But I cut the
********
What a sitcom!
Yeah you’re the star,
Playing games
with my brain
Acting like you’re
the villain
with a monologue
and a backstory,
round of applause,
You tore me apart—
I got some scars!
I was friends
with a monster—
Trust was shattered—
a prop show,
A joke at first,
But ends up
being a war—
A **** show…
But I’m still
standing,
spitting bars,
Flipping scripts
on the spot,
Writing you off
Like you never existed
In the first place—
In a space,
where I can’t erase,
But I can embrace,
You fading away.
Indigo—
It was nice
to know you,
But I’m done,
gotta go,
Hope you don’t grow
bitter and older,
But **** that,
I ain’t wishing
you luck—
I’m not cold-hearted,
I’m just getting colder
With a fractured heart—
Gotta find myself hope—
And when I do,
I’ll be the
one to open
it.
Dec 5, 2024
Dec 5, 2024 at 11:59 PM UTC
they say i'm a hard girl;
hard to please,
hard to talk to,
hard to handle-
because they don't know
where easy got me.
he fed me lies upon lies,
vomiting my secrets across
the floor leaving only
a bitter aftertaste of
betrayal hanging in the air;
the weight on my shoulders
dragging me down into the depths
as the traitor takes his leave.
they said i was a hard girl;
hard to understand-
because i washed
my backstory in a river and let
the letters bleed into each other,
because no one acknowledges
damage that only leaves a bruise.
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 3:15 AM UTC
It's because I'm not her
It's because she's the one and I'm just me
Even if I switched places with her
We would just be friends
It hurts because I’m not her
I’m the one who chases
Whose hand reaches out to remain empty
She’s the lead in your story
The truth is you never left me
I was never a contender
I’m the side character in your backstory
In the background as the sidekick
I could see it in your eyes
No matter how hard I tried
I’m just not her
Yet I see your easy smile
That utter joy in your face
How could I?
How could I want to ruin your love?
Even if I wanted to hate her I couldn’t
Because I could see it
I know you so well I can understand
I can’t be her
I’ll never be her
And you’ll never be mine
Jan 13, 2022
Jan 13, 2022 at 1:08 PM UTC
Oh little Caterpillar, 10 years old
Yet has a soul of solid gold
How can such a young being be such a joy
A spirit so welcoming, in a life you enjoy
Such a sad backstory yet you stand your grounds
Such a wonderful personality, your kindness knows no bounds
How fitting a cold, withered tree, was privileged enough to host such a loving caterpillar
And said tree also hopes to see her grow into a giant pillar
Your wonders run deeper than the orange river
To keep you in a jar would squander your abilities
To lead you too far would hinder your quality
You lead your life to your very own melody
To a song I learnt of too late, which led to a self made tragedy
You will become a butterfly, I know this to be true
Because you already have great morals, and a loving family too
I miss the little caterpillar that told me of her future
And I thank the heavens for the pleasure to have known her
Standing and hoping another fated meeting would occur
Alas, little caterpillar, you are but only a child
That had the ability to widen my smile
For 10 months I lacked joy, and your presence awoke my spirit
You left all too soon, before my heart and words could erupt
I come to wonder what happened to that little caterpillar
And if she ever contemplates the time we had together
Will the butterfly see me as nostalgia or a distant memory?
Will I be the oak tree of destiny, or just ancient history?
Mar 7, 2024
Mar 7, 2024 at 4:41 AM UTC
In the Alps of you and me,
There can be no victory.
The problem isn’t that you’re unfavorable,
The problem is that I don’t care enough to be capable.
Captivated by our loyalty and then berating our backstory,
Another mystery, special delivery.
No longer caged in your palace chorus,
But in my memory palace you remain victorious.
A revisionist history,
A thousand times I am sorry.
Jul 17, 2015
Jul 17, 2015 at 2:45 PM UTC
Early on
My T.V. was controlled
By my mother and older sister
Because of this
I have an immunity
To awful television
Americas Next Top Whatever
Growing up Whatever
The Housewives of Wherever
All the spinoffs
All the three week
Episodic backstory
Specials
Everything
I have found this taste in T.V.
Is engrained in most girls and women
Not all of them mind you
But most
From all of the
Nonsensical story lines
Wooden and awkward acting
Scripted life tragedies
Artificially inseminated arguments
Pointless and pedantic drama
Lifetime movies stick out
They are their own special breed
Because of this
They are beautiful
And I enjoy them immensely
So many meaningless sub plots
Badly framed shots
Ridiculous morals
Awfully choreographed action sequences
That have nothing to do
With the movie at all
In this way
They are their
Own type of pure
I have no shame
Besides
There is no where else
That I can watch an hour and a half
Of a police woman
Being hunted by her surrogate
Who was her best friend
(Before she psychotically fell in love with
The police woman's husband)
While the police woman is
Haunted by the ghost of her
Dead mother who
Gives her advice
From beyond the grave
Finally
With the help of the ghost mother
The police woman
And her misogynistic male partner
(Who is no longer a misogynist
Because she is such a **** fine cop)
Corner the surrogate
Who now has an assault rifle
And they end up having to blow her
Away
Emptying their guns
As she yells out and spins
Too many times into some faceless
Mansion's swimming pool
Ending with a slow motion splash
And no charges pressed anywhere
On anyone
All of this
Played by the up and coming
Talent of yesteryear
And the same six
Recycled actors
Who butcher their lines and roles
So artistically
That tense and awful moments
Make me convulse with laughter
It is surreal
And totally worth the guilt
I feel for enjoying such
Rancidly composed filth
Jul 25, 2016
Jul 25, 2016 at 12:09 AM UTC
Imma gunna
create a new
persona
complete with
stupid backstory
an' a picture
of some random
that's pleasing
to the eye
to enable
my ****** glory
and help spread
my ********
to the world
because my ego
demands
to
be
heard!
Jun 5, 2014
Jun 5, 2014 at 3:37 AM UTC