*******.

I thought you had my back, but you’re just another ******* *** on a pole.

My (now ex) boyfriend's pole more specifically.

Don’t get me wrong, he’s a disgusting, slimy, broken cunting pathetic dirtrag if there ever existed, but you?

******* Gabi.

I hate you. You’re the reason he left me in hopeful scatters down my never-ending driveway. You’re the reason I cry myself to sleep at 3 in the morning. You’re the reason I wake up shaking so ferociously I spew what little I could eat on the bed where we made love.

Fitting isn’t it?

******* Gabi.

Even your name makes my bones wants to explode into pieces that fill you with holes where your *****'s blood is washed away like sewerage.

******* Gabi.

And the fact that you have something I don’t.

******* Gabi.

I hope your children die before you get to hold them.

******* Gabi.

I hope your heart gets ripped out your chest and **** on.

******* Gabi...
******* Ga...
*******...
****...
Fu...

P.S. Enjoy my leftovers *****.

Burning arms mean no harm,
They’re gentle, soft, delicate,
Oh so wonderful.
She sat next to me on a friend’s sofa,
All I was doing was being a lofa,
Even still she was getting closer,
**** me I love her,
The ex is basically my brother,
I want to be her lover.
Risk of sounding corny,
I’ll change the story into something more boring.
I’m not fussed, don’t give a ****.
Sod your silly rhymes,
Moving onto better times,
Like ******* on limes.
How can I enjoy writing lines?
You’re supposed to snort them,
To be like real men,
Not you, you ******* hen.
There we go again, back with his pen.
Stab it in deep, right in your feet,
In the middle of the street.
You can’t decide nor go anywhere,
You’re stuck there.
All the pain you gonna bear,
All ‘cos you care!
It’s completely pointless,
No-one to say ‘ah-bless’,
You’re a ******* cunting mess.
What you gonna do?
Sit there and stew, squirm like a *****,
Say *******! Say *******!
That’s what to do,
It’s all down to you.
So get on with your boo-hoo’s,
Stand up and fight,
Don’t ever lose the sight,
You might just, you might!

Sitting in a coffee shop in yupstown hipsville Brooklyn
scrawling in a notebook with a headband on
I become a caricature of myself
why these things even matter to me I cannot explain
but I feel like scumbag anyway

Constantly criticizing
revising
rewriting my words and theirs
my thoughts
"oh thats pretentious"
"what is that? your talking out your ***"
"why do I/you even bother?"
Why can't I just go?
Be
write write scribble doodle
think
at least I'm not the ******* sitting across from me
(there it goes again)

But i am part of a growing number
of diligent dilettantes
with notebooks and  novels
leather bound and worn
"vintage"
and "obscure" instruments
and tastes
because I am all leisure
I have that kind of time
but aren't I just another ****?
Cunting out my cunty cuntness
like it's something new
like i'm not just playing games
playing roles
half committed and pandering
to an audience of privilege
looking for clarity, or authenticity?
or am I just another salesman?

Ugh I cannot escape
my sense of inadequacy
I m a sham, a ******* artist
When is it going to ******* end....
is there any escape
that comes without labels
self imposed or otherwise?
(stop wining you ****!)

**** said the cunting apple treat trope
Slitting on a firm grip of a tree rope
Spinnin on a note book off the rocks
this head off mine bounces with a flock of bad *****
beatin it sittin for forty body bed binding but a balding butthitting *** hammer makes meowing a healthy heat hicky
slippin up the road in trans am acre
soap suds spottin fifty… quarter pounders
my only repo citation culls me off the hopeless handsome horseman
**** it like the tip was for free
mess up the ***** mop, and spit it like you split ***** **** tangoing to be a lit stick and fee
**** ******* **** buzzkill shill and analingus for me

I really haven't be reaching for it
of late; this illusion of independent
self-nature doesn't have much weight

until I try to figure what's eating
at me, what I haven't been able
to express as poetry. I keep
thinking to myself, keep
forgetting to get on
with it and tindr.

Cycling home earlier I had a thought:
She won't love me, she doesn't love herself.
Life's a cruel *****, and I am a heartless *******
in this absolute cunting-****-face of a wasted world.

Please just tell me
One more time

Breath, just breath
B-R-E-A-T-H- BREATH

No, not so fast!

So I breathe in slow but instead of breathing in
the light
and breathing out the anxiety
I breath in more anxiety the anxiety of breathing in and only getting more anxiety gives me anxiety

so I hold it
I hold my breath until every sound every figure dulls and blurs and fades with me

Til my heart-rate slows until my body aches for air, it cries for air but my cry for peace is much greater and even at the greatest sense of alarm my will to quell the never ending buzzing in my heart shuts the creature down and gives into the mind

The second hand becomes is millisecond hand the world fades... the buzzing stops.

But ****, I gotta breath. I breath in a swarm of bees- a hive in my chest every second aches me and every modern inconvenience a sting to chest.

So maybe, just maybe, the whole "breathing thing" doesn't help



Puh-lease just tell me one more time
one MORE time
that it's all in my mind,

all in my head, all in MY control, tell me tell me TELL me.

I cannot wait, for me, CEO, Commander-in-chief, owner and operator of this broken terrestrial vehicle, this flimsy floppy bipedal flesh sack that some tainted white-light was poured into by some divine comedy to call the man in charge that oh-so-happy-hoppy dopamine and ORDER him

to GET ******* pouring and while you're at it go and fire Cpt. Cortisol he can't tell the cunting difference between a fire and a ****.

Please send me more motivational quotes so I can "Go get 'em" and remember that "every failure is just a learning experience" and to "**** the haters"

but how do I **** myself?

**** myself... maybe that will bring me down... give me 20 minutes OH WHO AM I KIDDING give me 30 seconds

I mean, really anything to soothe the bees


Why don't you go ahead... go ahead, advise me on what to do

Tell me about how sometimes you have bad days-
tell me it's hard for you to go from work to yoga to the gym to your friends house then home with only a hour left and still decide to make lunch for the next day (to maintain that ideal diet) about the difficulty you face in getting up from the couch from that point of utter exhaustion that desire to sit still and consume bright lights until your night light becomes day lights... but you got up anyway!

INSIPIRATIONAL!  

All the while I cried in bed.

Why? Who ******* knows. Wait, wait, wait... you're telling me sometimes sheer existence isn't enough to destroy you? You're telling me you can draw a straight line from event to emotion every time? You're telling me you don't lie to your coworkers about what you're doing for lunch so that you can go to your car and drive to the NEXT parking lot over only to be alone in the uncomfortable quiet of your car where you can just sit and scroll and scroll and scroll where nothing can distract you from distracting yourself?

oh.

Well, this is awkward.


OH! OHHHH! Run! Drink water! OPEN AIR!?

HOW HAS THIS CONCOCTION ESCAPED ME FOR SO LONG? I should have listened more in Sunday school.

So here I am running and sweating and drinking only for the water to turn right into sweat that stings the chaffed skin under my eyes from rubbing plum-colored bags waiting for that genie to come out and grant me sleep. Sprinting. Violating my body's every signal to chill the **** out, like I've ever listened.

And honestly- I think it spooked the bees. I think they froze in fear over the tossing and jostling of their home.

I stop to breath, to **** in more anxiety, so I must run more.

So I run, and breath and stop to heave in more anxiety then run some more.

And I run and will run until I think of some better way or hear some better advice or die or whatever makes you comfortable with this line - what do you want to hear? Fade? Vaporize? Stop?

Well now I'm exhausted and drowning in the water I drank. Thanks.

For now I'll be the world's greatest actor. The charlie chaplin of masochism!

You were right all along, it's all under my control. I could've pretended long ago!

Any other ideas?

You annoy me
The shape of your face
You don't do your best
Your a daily disgrace
What is wrong with you?
Why can't you improve?
Everyone else is always
Always,
Waiting for you!
Your such an ugly ******
You've such an durnoid brain
How can you stand yourself?
Your creepy and insane
No one wants to be your friend
To get under that thick skin?
If they only knew what's in you
You'd be off to the loony bin
I hate to have to be with you
You deserve each and every hit
You stupid cunting *******
You nasty mlksop *****
Your never going to be enough
You were nothing from the start
There's nothing good about you
Just stay there in the dark
I don't want to be you
But I am within
I'm your self loathing
And I want to win

Where did you aquire this thing?
Whilst you were developing
Someone got acid
And slipped some right in
Back then you see
You had no choice
After all, who listens to a
A childs gentle voice?
And so your loathing did begin
That was safe
To keep it all in
Every slight and every dig
All those millions
Of unfair things
A compressed bottle
Lava red
Fit to bust inside your head
You know somewhere
"I don't deserve this!"
Your lost in the doldrums
Self hatred transfixed
An entire life of things unsaid
Sail over you each night in bed
You need to say what you need to say
To recover, you have to be brave
And give yourself a ******* break
To begin the task of bailing yourself out
While your cristmas card list shrinks
(Without a dought)
But in the cold light of one fine day
that wretched beast inside
Will shrink into it's grave
And die

Cunting stars
Making moves
Trust me not
Counting the words
Lost in the fault