Could there be Dear Imagery
Site or sound that could ever be
Present without minds capturing
The essence of sweet poetry?

And yet, 'tis dismal irony
That breathes such life from misery
And spins on canvas words of gold
Transcending time to ages old.

With Wheatly's pen the symbols sound
Where rhythm of life's melodies abound
Pleading angelic praise be sent
To writers willed with Heaven's intent.

Bare all thy soul, a fool's voice cries,
That taunting thoughts be not denied.
Like seas that beakon sailors hearts,
The poet's burning fury starts.

You talk her down as if she were nothing
As if you even cared
You were content in knowing you've killed the ***** dead
You've thrown her to the ground six feet under

This isn't what I meant when I said lay Barbie on the floor

Slicing
Cutting
You throw in a laugh
Cut the ******* **** off
Give the **** a labodemy

You stare her down
As you beat your **** to a living dead pulse
To what lays in the floor
Your hands now soaked red
You smear it across your face
You SADISTIC BEAST!
Your cruel laughter is a beakon for the demons
They've come out to play

You look towards the midnight sky
Over exhausting your hatred
For what's chopped up on the floor

This isn't what I meant when I said lay Barbie on the floor