"convulsions" poems
To **** or not to **** that’s the ******* question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the bowels to suffer
The twists and turns of outrageous rumblings
Or to take action against a bellyful of gas,
And by farting pump one out? To strain, to bloat
No more; and by a mighty outburst we’ll end
The gut’s ache, and the thousand natural stenches
That the **** is heir to, 'tis a resolution
Right devoutly to be wish'd. To **** to ****
But perchance to **** there's the ******* problem;
For in that mighty **** of doom what turds may come,
When we have let the little beauty out from mortal tail,
Must give us pause; there's the danger
That makes calamity of the farter’s life;
For who would bear the sneers and mocks of men,
The neighbour’s shock, the lover’s curling lip,
The pangs of horrid stench, the ******* o’erflowing,
The leaking **** orifice, and the drips,
Impatient strainings that the tragic farter makes,
When he himself might sweet easance make
With a careful prodding finger? Who would a ******** wear,
Grunting and sweating with noisome convulsions,
But that the dread of solids after air-release,
The undiscover'd oozings, from whose delivery
No toilet visitor recovers, puzzles the will,
And makes us bear the bellyache we have
Than fly to others we know not of?
Thus indigestion does make cowards of us all;
And then the native heave of constipation
Is sicklied o'er with the pale fear of defecation;
And enterprises of both ******* and crapping
With this regard, their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of exciting toilet action.
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 2:25 PM UTC
Frozen in the darkness silence peacefully shrouds me
hoping that I am breathless, praying he wont see,
this sublime sorrow I am gasping in the pain
swallowing bitter tears seconds from insane.
Defining the emotion each and every time
trying not to echo, balancing on the line,
silence is a killer but not my reason to die
hearing in this deafness will always make me cry.
The shadows over take me, speak the unspoken curse
just as well I am dying can't bear to smell this hearse.
Weighed down by lost tomorrows my memory finally broke,
why is it always my own hands gripped to make me choke?
His hug comforts my stomach blindly in his sleep
not knowing in this darkness my eyes can't help but weep,
obscurity plays around me tries to steal my breath
every time I close my eyes I know I’m close to death.
Panic underestimates the power the black withholds
carving me so gently, painless as it moulds
I sweat out my reaction cause words can't find a voice,
helplessly devoted to lay I have no choice.
Everything suffocates can't bear to close my eyes
repeated optimism as I see how everyone dies,
my mind is there to haunt me it never gives me peace
all the pills digested at will, still wont make it cease.
Night is a blur now confused by chemical reaction
convulsions rage as death excels performing its extraction,
in the mix I see his face traumatised by my choice, it's made
but time has gone his actions futile as sight begins to fade,
regret stabs flesh repentantly too late to change effect
I know he’ll cry forever at his failure to correct.
My selfish, vengeful actions will speak louder than my word
he never seen the suicide…do you think he finally heard?
Aug 8, 2010
Aug 8, 2010 at 7:07 AM UTC
A Letter To My Aunt Discussing The Correct Approach To Modern Poetry
To you, my aunt, who would explore
The literary Chankley Bore,
The paths are hard, for you are not
A literary Hottentot
But just a kind and cultured dame
Who knows not Eliot (to her shame).
Fie on you, aunt, that you should see
No genius in David G.,
No elemental form and sound
In T.S.E. and Ezra Pound.
Fie on you, aunt! I'll show you how
To elevate your middle brow,
And how to scale and see the sights
From modernist Parnassian heights.
First buy a hat, no Paris model
But one the Swiss wear when they yodel,
A bowler thing with one or two
Feathers to conceal the view;
And then in sandals walk the street
(All modern painters use their feet
For painting, on their canvas strips,
Their wives or mothers, minus hips).
Perhaps it would be best if you
Created something very new,
A ***** novel done in Erse
Or written backwards in Welsh verse,
Or paintings on the backs of vests,
Or Sanskrit psalms on lepers' chests.
But if this proved imposs-i-ble
Perhaps it would be just as well,
For you could then write what you please,
And modern verse is done with ease.
Do not forget that 'limpet' rhymes
With 'strumpet' in these troubled times,
And commas are the worst of crimes;
Few understand the works of Cummings,
And few James Joyce's mental slummings,
And few young Auden's coded chatter;
But then it is the few that matter.
Never be lucid, never state,
If you would be regarded great,
The simplest thought or sentiment,
(For thought, we know, is decadent);
Never omit such vital words
As belly, genitals and -----,
For these are things that play a part
(And what a part) in all good art.
Remember this: each rose is wormy,
And every lovely woman's germy;
Remember this: that love depends
On how the Gallic letter bends;
Remember, too, that life is hell
And even heaven has a smell
Of putrefying angels who
Make deadly whoopee in the blue.
These things remembered, what can stop
A poet going to the top?
A final word: before you start
The convulsions of your art,
Remove your brains, take out your heart;
Minus these curses, you can be
A genius like David G.
Take courage, aunt, and send your stuff
To Geoffrey Grigson with my luff,
And may I yet live to admire
How well your poems light the fire.
6.5k
there is a darkness
that the silver song
of soft illusion lights
in symbolic equivalents
of images real
it is a light
brutally interrogative
magnifying with dazzling rays
the breakage
at the jagged edges of the world
and lays hostage to impersonation
that resembles fragments
of smashed oval shaped mirrors
reflecting pieces of broken
brown terracotta soldiers
and causes the eyes to hurt
with a watched inner holocaust
of disturbing coloured detonations,
implosively autonomous
given to a deceived departure
a departure from reality
given by the advocacy
of ideological rationalism
that sees three kings
with blood on their crowns
in amplified convulsions
call mustre for
disturbance, disorder, destruction
and death
as blood stains the Balkan streets
and all emotional impulse
is volatilized
and a sinister, stuporous, stagnancy
stalks the land
where sustaining minds
are subject to a brutal insensitivity
that dazzles on the edge of a spiral vertigo
it is a light
brutally interrogative
magnifying with dazzling rays
a vocabulary of incoherence
like the rancid stains of *****
that inhabit the jagged edges of the world
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 1:25 PM UTC
Today again I saw a gate in the sky.
Streams of pale light trickled through it.
I no longer looked at the sun, only straight ahead,
My silhouette reflected in the ***** tram window.
I looked farther, hypnotized,
sipping words veiled in the dust of the autumn sun.
Dry spaces. Leaves.
Golden bile sparkled,
And no one saw this wonder in the sky.
At the stop, in the crowd rushing by,
An experiment took place:
A man wrapped in copper threads.
He searched for relief while anger bound his soul.
He fought the air, attacked with words,
Like a puppet moving in convulsions.
Hands clenched, anger in his eyes.
“This will pass, this will fade,” I thought,
Moving to another car.
A primal tremor. A change of frequency.
Someone is turning the **** of our universe.
How many more cells of the body will they spoil
Before it is ground to ashes?
Until all ends in colonization,
A reward for micro-souls from another world.
People sunk in their minds
do not hear the hum of strings.
And I plead in my thoughts:
listen, look, be your reality.
Behind the gate a hundred weeks ago,
a crackling gramophone plays.
My calm relieves someone’s thoughts.
Somewhere, thousands of hours ago,
the past becomes the future.
Next time when you pass by me, indifferent,
the warmth of my thought will warm your
Dry, wrinkled hands.
I will never know You, and I would like to know
what you will say when these trembling words arrive on the wind.
In the autumn glow of the setting sun,
Like a gentle brushing of leaves at the next opening of the gate.
I will be there in the crack like a stray thought
that wanted to become immortality.
Sep 25, 2025
Sep 25, 2025 at 5:59 PM UTC
From behind your canvas
you peer up at me taking in the details of my body.
Your scientific eyes studying me
cold
with neither lust or disgust
as if I were a vase
or a basket of fruit.
Not long before this we embraced one another
in the throes of passion.
You've never been more into me.
The skillful motions of your lips and tongue,
throwing my body into religious convulsions
and praising your name.
It intrigues me how you can turn that off.
How you can refrain from smiling
as you draw the outline of my ******
How my naked body so near and ready
doesn’t cause that animal I’ve come to know so well
to overpower the artist in you.
I’m truly fascinated, filled with both admiration and jealousy
for that woman you are creating.
I know that In your mind,
we've never been closer
but you look so far away
hiding from me behind that easel
cheating on my body with your interpretation.
No doubt, she will be flawless,
and have none of my ugly imperfections.
She isn’t even finished being born and I hate her already.
Although, I’ll lie when you reveal her to me.
I’ll tell you that she’s beautiful
that I really like her.
Then, I’ll make love to you
right there on the floor.
Forcing her to watch.
Dec 20, 2009
Dec 20, 2009 at 5:46 AM UTC
this
poem
started off
intending to be the shortest poem in the world
nay,
more aptly
in the whole wide, wide open uni-verse
but ambition overtook it
and it aimed to stretch far and wide
an Aristotelian hubris, you know
like the ambition of Macbeth
going beyond what Mrs Macbeth intended
and so this ambitious little poem of ours expanded
starting meek as grass
growing zealous
and went beyond itself and its kind
this
poem
that
had such humble beginnings
that dared to want to be the shortest poem in the world
but turned out loquacious
and it could go on, it said,
beating all length, breadth and dimension
and would have -
but it got into convulsions and fits
and shock
when it had gone beyond its shortness
and it couldn’t even spell
couldn't even get words right
floating in a soup of red lines in Word or in Mac’s Pages
and so it took its own life
or someone stabbed it like they did to o’erweening Macbeth
or to our poor, poor misunderstood Rasputin who being a Saint was thought a Devil
but was all humble
as the shortest poem in the uni-verse
Oct 29, 2011
Oct 29, 2011 at 10:06 PM UTC
Rolling dawn to dusk across the starry length,
Spiraling circles amidst blazing orbs.
Held no memories of my stellar birth,
Nor tell vast upheavals of mighty epics.
Early shedding of original flames,
A layer of hydrogen was burned away.
Convulsions, diarrhea shrouds my youth,
A steamy cloak caresses my tender skin.
Around four billion laps before this day,
Life awakened in my ancient depths.
Poison polluted my outer coat, aye,
As oxygen poured from primal bugs.
Cycles of warmth and ice marks my crotch,
Evolving life, risking death, must adapt.
Such poor creatures persist beneath my watch,
I shelter them from the frigid void.
Toward the day of the dull red giant,
Even I am facing the gates of malicious wrath.
All shall perish under their final monument,
From youth, to strength, then wisdom, onto death.
Sadly, star dust tells no tales.
Aug 30, 2010
Aug 30, 2010 at 5:19 PM UTC
Willow herb floating
on silent certainty
ashes of sighs
not fleeting,
unvapoured on the
blossom of the rain,
I am too light to
pull or push
the swing of delight
through this land.
The rain left me for a
while
sun unshielding
-a thousand widows
more unyielding than the depths . .
Once shadowed whisperers
of delight,gossamer
sparkling , descending
their chains
of necromantic hope.
Lilith is no night owl
she is mother, eve
and my becoming:
sweet earth spun
at once ,
exhaling her .
The see saw
bumped gently
on my chin
it is a most gentle
form of awakening.
The silence bore no whispers
till sinking through the quicksand
-or was it quicksilver?
-in any case I could smell little
in my amniotic amnesia.
I made ten thousand friends,till their soap
made this place clean.
Is this a seed or a dying
hopefulness
-is my sallow sowing
beyond all shores of
reproduction;
a reflection of the child
they dared not bear?
Is my last breath like this
a forgotton yielding
will they catch me
as I fall ?
-(sweet earth)-
This moth of my ending,
a shallow recantation,
my fears-
their memories, mere
testubes of
stylish hope .
I breathe the elegant stare
you have forgotten .
Once more free
from such
rememberance
I need not ,
remained not ,
your imploded ,
wakefulness .
A thousand pardons
exhaled like silk
entwining
an unfinished race
spider of a thousand eyes .
One may say
I was
stared
to death
but surrogate air
mocks childish pity.
Taut refelexions
bear salt echoes
in silk convulsions
fresh water
a veneered hope .
Easier in death than life
is a child's sorrowed
partings ,
the illusion of
bouyancy
rippled tides
unfelt.
The oceans have not enough salt
for such shrunken sorrow.
if we could but once
have shared
unbreathed aspersion .
The room has come and gone
the pillow quite undry
unforgotten
unremembered.
A web untouched
Sep 27, 2010
Sep 27, 2010 at 7:46 AM UTC
I've been watching you from the nightstand,
Eyes closed,
But hearing, feeling
Each rat tremor on top of cheap carpet
Covered in cat **** and ***** stains.
You have been sleeping too long,
Eyelids turning to flakes of skin,
Feeding your floorboard friends.
I have seen your fingers curl into messy knots of
Purple thumbprints and veins reaching
For the ceiling and roof.
You left me plugged into the wall,
And I have inched closer to my own death
With each misses phone call and text,
My predisposed convulsions.
I just wanted you to know
Your mother called today
To ask for the new street address,
The landlord says the rent is 8 days late,
But your boyfriend is ill concerned with your state of health,
In fact,
He left the state
And bought a new haircut and identity.
Jan 24, 2016
Jan 24, 2016 at 11:07 PM UTC
So beautiful
White and Shimmery, They
flutter in meandering patterns
Mesmerize
Draw you towards
paper-white butterflies
all all all all around me they fly fly fly fly
A sea of white spots
IT'S HARD TO-
Tilt your head up
-BREATHE, breathe, Focus
Catch one
****** it by its wings
pluck them out
Crush its shaking body
Feel
as panicked convulsions turn into stillness
Paper-white butterflies
Don't let a single one slip by
Nov 8, 2017
Nov 8, 2017 at 4:48 PM UTC
I remember the first time I **********
I thought I was having a seizure-
or that I had somehow malfunctioned the Matrix
and had broken through
a fold of reality;
some white-noise ladder to greater plains,
throbbing, animal convulsions,
and a peak that only death
could overpower.
I remember crashing into shame
upon my return, versus the smug welcome
of oxytocin and my adult life;
not knowing to what extent
my ***** would dominate my mind;
you know, I cannot write a poem
without noticing my loneliness,
all the ******** I have left behind.
For that moment, in my New Found ******
I was paralysed at the thought of a sober life,
and ever since that moment,
ever since that night,
I have been searching for those higher plains
in the lowest branches of myself.
Now I smoke my fill and redden my eyes
to bleed out old anxieties,
dry up old tears whilst softening scars
that I have collected over years
spent indoors, hiding from danger.
I remember the first time I **********
how it came to me by accident,
a repeated motion of unknown emotions;
the undulations in her breath;
even now I still sit by myself,
and make love out of whatever is left.
Jun 4, 2015
Jun 4, 2015 at 5:21 PM UTC
I seize in the day, I seize in the night
Convulsions plague me throughout my life
The stiffness comes, And then it goes
But the worst is afterward, when I’ve discovered that my friends can turn into foes
The mere sight of it has scared them off
As a result they laugh, taunt and scoff
I seize in the day, I seize in the night
Medicines plague me throughout my life
The neurologist says “Let’s try this one”
Dilatin, Depakote, Tegretol, Topamax
They try my last nerve, Until finally I say
“Haven’t you tried enough on me, you quacks?!?”
I seize in the day ,I seize in the night
Must I wear a “dogtag” for all my life?
This little tag, on my necklace, it labels me
Can’t you see the medical symbol and on the other side in big bold letters “EPILEPSY”
It’s a ****** on the self-esteem
It’s a reminder that I belong to a different regime
One of a nature gone to extremes, If that is what I let it be
I seize in the day, I seize in the night
I don’t give up, I say to my brain and my soul, “Fight, Fight, FIGHT!”
I’m frustrated and don’t give up
Although there are times when I want to, I don’t.
I’ve been a fighter from the day I was born
And in the heat of this battle of neurons and neurologists
My determination and perseverance were forged.
The more I seized, the more I fought
Through the trauma of it all, lessons were learned and taught
And the more I seized, the more I realized
That Epilepsy was a lesson in Serenity.
Dec 4, 2013
Dec 4, 2013 at 5:09 PM UTC
sonic
bridge,
seismic
convulsions
a desert for us and them,
you can do many things with a blank canvas
--maelstroms, blaze dispersions
a line allows progress, a circle does not,
infiltrates the surface,
flashes into steam
our red cathedral,
our furnace lake,
the promised land in spiritual drought
this catatonic
heaven, a thirst for something more
Aug 16, 2023
Aug 16, 2023 at 1:50 PM UTC
I want you…
I want you instinctually and primitively.
Spiritually and physically.
I want to give you portions of me that I’ve never shown anybody; that will become distinctively yours - recognizable only to you and you alone.
I want to submerge you in a realm of ******** gentleness that perpetuates an aggressive kindness, that stimulates, and soothes every aching, yearning, desire that flows through your body.
Continuously…
I’m telling you what you already knew, that I will always be there for you, and you will never again feel alone or abandoned.
I want to give you complete and total satisfaction.
I want you and every little idiosyncrasy that makes you unique, that others have critiqued, because they didn’t understand.
I want to show you that I can…
I want to dwell in the depths of your being. I want to unravel your complexity.
I want to give you vibrations in the form of a currant that arouses sensationally, at a frequency that makes you hum melodies of ecstasy uncontrollably as you call out for me.
I want to initiate an explosion of soft convulsions from the warmth of my mouth penetrating every inch of your body rhythmically.
I want the waters from the spring of your masculinity to drown me, and then I want you to save me.
I want to embrace you each night and wrap you in between soft warm thighs, and welcoming arms under moonlight, until your torso is wet, drenched with sweat, until each kiss drips from the tip of your lips, and I caress your back with my fingertips.
I want to make love to you the way an angel would if she could.
I want to show you heaven and ethereal visions without limita-tions or specifications.
I want to give you happiness and pleasure unparallel, unlike any-thing either of us has ever felt, seen, or could create in our dreams.
I want to protect you from harm beneath my wings. I want you to believe in me…
I want you to come into my life.
Sep 1, 2010
Sep 1, 2010 at 7:21 PM UTC
so I drank half the bottle
to tell her how I felt
but wasn't home that morning;
she took me straight to bed.
though all I am is a drunkard -
my best to gasp and writhe.
and the only landslide I want to cause:
convulsions between her thighs.
All cross eyed, in dead men's skies.
and I could sleep beneath dancers.
but as for now I'll play my fill
But she'll struggle to move me after.
Until then she does try and try
to make me gasp and writhe.
But she can feel what I cannot -
Breathing "I love you"s between her sighs.
Jun 29, 2011
Jun 29, 2011 at 3:11 PM UTC
Cry, child
Let your tears bloom
Stop not your weeping
Cease not your sobs
Harm not yourself
Let it out
Remember, child
The inner temple you once held
Break not your mind
Sever not the link
Discard not the love
Let it stay
Become, child
Connected to Mother Nature
Hurt not her heart
Hate not her convulsions
**** not her soul
Let her live
You are a conduit, child
You are the link
You are the river
The blood
The life
Dec 7, 2020
Dec 7, 2020 at 12:11 PM UTC
The convulsions of my chest
splinter my ribs
rip my heart from my breast
Tearing muscle from bone
grinding joints
that creak and groan
My lungs implode upon me
choke my breath
I die, suffocating slowly
Stars painted on my eyes
until I'm blind
and my broken body cries.
Nov 4, 2014
Nov 4, 2014 at 7:36 PM UTC
when i heard about it,
when i heard of “free art:”
i thought of free bread and wine,
and celtic sirens,
i laughed though... you made the earth
so ******* boring we all wanted to become astronauts.
when art became free we tried to moralise
drinking wine (as a portent of richness)
and eating bread (as a portent of the russian revulsion),
i bought my art.. and waited for the ones who
discouraged it complaining buying their bread “well fed.”
the celtic sirens hung on though, singing softer and softer
but more prone to the acid tongues dragging the democrats into
a hope of kings and village kindred elders,
but i still didn’t hope for free artistry that was akin to circus,
caged the gypsy have i?
i have, but i did not warrant free food or free aquas of variation,
i simplified freeing the demands with the demands freed into excess,
well... if i were kingly i’d still have provided free bread and wine
rather than music and the curbing the excesses of lyricists;
making music free just discouraged all originality, all creativity,
it just became a realism of a struggled acting -
i feel cheated having missed the antics of britannia in
the 1960's and '70's like it was greek and roman without
the epileptics of watching a documentary on trans-sexualisation
of brazilians and ******** disco to gag on an excess of flashy lights
just to sell lipstick... and have these quasi-epileptic shivers
without having an opposing opinion to counter the freely stated & fluxed.
i guess my convulsions were due to the fact that the men
didn’t call it either homosexuality nor trans-sexuality,
and that i was actually looking at two dodos talking, meaning
i was seeing the extinction of the human race through the ****
meaning i was watching the knights templar idol, baphomet,
realised 2000 years after the crucifixion in that crown of thorn dreams,
perfected in thailand... of all places;
that actually beats the identification of ibn saud as the dajjal,
moving further east of mecca than riyadh and
the assassination attempt within the framework of muhammad’s hadith of ‘no entry’ into mecca by the dajjal.
Oct 12, 2015
Oct 12, 2015 at 11:17 PM UTC
For it was but a figurine of blue nothing majestic
in its stance until a fateful day upon its happening
of beleaguered figure with eyes that shone beyond
this vacant etching. Without a yearning it picked at
this still supple flesh and devoured the beauty within.
Coexisting motions interlaced from a form of nothingness
to an existence of beauty that birthed in form and a weave
of colour liberated from its anatomy. Once it has given into
repulsive convulsions of what had perspired it saw with
what new eyes. But where one feather lingered it needed more.
A craving of beauty even though needed through means
that weren't intentional. But elegance is an obscurity of
vain ambitions that once reflected upon is need to be kept
within the grasp of moments now corroding at these delicate
frames whisper in sight and where one fluttered now, more do.
So many feathers adorned its foliage, and seen was the beauty
that extended past its virtues that were as corrupted as its on
moral compass that was dipped in blood, you should fear a
Peacock of no foliage for it needs to be hole to see its feathers
grace the air and only the inevitable craving will fulfil this plumage.
For it see with many eyes that aren't its own but fulfil it plumage.
*"So many see nothing, but a world where beauty is constructed
from the eyes of others and even they do not truly see,*
Nov 25, 2016
Nov 25, 2016 at 5:49 PM UTC
CLOWNS DYINGFIVE circus clowns dying this year, morning newspapers told their lives, how each one horizontal in a last gesture of hands arranged by an undertaker, shook thousands into convulsions of laughter from behind rouge-red lips and powder-white face.
STEAMBOAT BILLWhen the boilers of the Robert E. Lee exploded, a steamboat winner of many races on the Mississippi went to the bottom of the river and never again saw the wharves of Natchez and New Orleans.
And a legend lives on that two gamblers were blown toward the sky and during their journey laid bets on which of the two would go higher and which would be first to set foot on the turf of the earth again.
FOOT AND MOUTH PLAGUEWhen the mysterious foot and mouth epidemic ravaged the cattle of Illinois, Mrs. Hector Smith wept bitterly over the government killing forty of her soft-eyed Jersey cows; through the newspapers she wept over her loss for millions of readers in the Great Northwest.
SEVENSThe lady who has had seven lawful husbands has written seven years for a famous newspaper telling how to find love and keep it: seven thousand hungry girls in the Mississippi Valley have read the instructions seven years and found neither illicit loves nor lawful husbands.
PROFITEERI who saw ten strong young men die anonymously, I who saw ten old mothers hand over their sons to the nation anonymously, I who saw ten thousand touch the sunlit silver finalities of undistinguished human glory-why do I sneeze sardonically at a bronze drinking fountain named after one who participated in the war vicariously and bought ten farms?
1.9k
**Felt the pretense behind closed eyes,
composed vibrations of rhetoric
freelancing in executing ignis fatuus
drank the kool-aid of your own grandeur
a punch drunk conviction's onus
in false pretenses of a mislead head trip
a study in contradiction's convulsions
simmered of half past lucid judgement,
junctures of reality submersed
in cloudy formations
impervious to reasoning**
...a saga written upon piqued skies of indifference
Jun 15, 2015
Jun 15, 2015 at 10:42 AM UTC
How badly
do I wish to love away
your
self-loathing,
to kiss
away your
ignorance,
to
hold you
through
your dissatisfaction-induced
convulsions;
cry away
your demons
and hate,
flushing
the pain
into my
skin.
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 5:40 PM UTC
To be trapped in a body containing its own limits
While others trapped inside an open bottle
Both similar yet different
People in bodies trapped can't aspire to break what can be broken
Those trapped in a bottle can leave when they can shape themselves to leave the bottle that isn't closed
But can't comprehend the shape
What we seem to forget
Is we are limitless in a reality deemed by culture and illusion
To be produced and consumed
To fit any shape but not move
You're not suffocating
I've moved air through clogged straw
And still I stress
And I digress
Even when suicide is a mere option
A cowardly choice some say
Be glad
Because when it seems bad
It really is
Then hysterically submit to convulsions
And succumb to the shock
These are our motives place by our limits in a society that doesn't exist
Like you
It's man made
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 4:57 PM UTC