A nother ****** day
B inging, then throwing up; Hunger
C rying, as usual
D eath sounds comforting
E each day is a struggle
F orcing smiles
G one too soon? Not soon enough
H eaven isn't for people like me.
I nternal struggle—i want to
   die//i want to live ..
J ust one more cut .. Oops, too
   many to count
K ill yourself, my thoughts say
L iving is exhausting
M ore scars
N othing inside. It's hungry. Being
    eaten alive
O h, I woke up this morning, I
    wanted to die
P ain .. So much pain.
Q uit  it!
R est in peace [RIP]
S hut up!
T hese thoughts will be the death
   of me. Tired
U nder the facade is a corpse. Im
    a walking dead
V ery soon i will end it.
W hy should I stay alive? Should
     I **** myself?
X friends, x lovers, goodbye
Y es
Z ero thoughts

Lavinia were you walking in the park?
Arm in arm with that pompous chanticleer
Singing in your sweet ear, a Sonneteer
Tongue-teasing rhymes told by that knave Petrach
Your ice blue eyes bright lit by sudden spark
Even blushes on your soft cheek appear
As if you found his every word sincere
Repeated in his carriage after dark

Master of dark magic hidden in verse
Your velvet rose virtue is your treasure
Lock it away from enticing word
On that vile poet will I set a curse
Venus come down and thwart all his pleasure
E**specially, I beg his days be numbered.

P** eople all
Around the world,
Singing along to the radio;
Screaming along with WCYY!
I love how they play newer music mixed with the classics.
Only on 94.3fm you can hear
Neon Trees to Green Day to Metallica to

Passion Pit to The Lumineers and
Imagine Dragons! CYY is the station
That one needs for life. I am CYY!

Spry distractions loaf on lithe intent,
men waking, wishing, trying,
b’lieving, doing, buying -inging time rather than be-,
results in salt-work, sprawling like the C
in coldness: callous spray
that dampens your New Canvas Day.

Pixels splat and reek of pure demise,
wine trauma met with whys
fires livid earth from foil-pressed crumbs
from which your towers rise. You miss
the point of -ing;
the shape you’re in’s an -e-d thing
writ past because of practice;
timed it slow, fixed solemn bets
all rife with catty pugil,
ribbons placed on “I-got-tīme-in” *******
that gleam too brightly
for the lover’s open eye. Youriyese
in grace, ingratiated by devices
(rueful caries)
shelter you from toil’s ten-thousand days.
You see them, they see you whilst print-ing,
comb-ing over, feel-ing joy anew: such sugar lines
the bottom
of a borrowed cup of time.

White hues direct-ing -ingots in a line
totally gold
and pin “pathetic” on your chest,
their best not forged in -ing or be-
(like they would want you to be) -lieve,
but rather hey! and halt!
The hollow points of discord,
blood of victims be- -in’ salt.

Many different styles
Using people to help make a song
Singing
Instruments
C**lapping or applausing after a concert

(C)ristmas is coming,
(H)elp those in need,
(R)ise, Oh, loving Savior,
(I)ndiviual angels, come,
(S)oldiers in thy name,
(T)ap on the door of cheer,
(M)erry Cristmas to
(A) loving Savior,
(S)inging joyful songs.

H iding
A las has gotten quite lonely
P assing in a world I no longer know
P erhaps I can't fall in love but
I like the idea
N ow the thought of happiness for my soul
E ases me
S inging at crossroads where Ill meet Lucy
S atisfying the cost to
~
Find

C rying all the night through

R inging our the pillow case

Y ou haven't come home yet

I doubt that it with ever happen

N ever felt like this before

G o away. I know of you lies

i wonder how people will ever manage
to figure out a way to take a bottle
for a shovel and dig...
channeling rage, by the only means
necessary... acting out: a peaceful silence;
others can figure-skate my eyes
into a whirl  with their hallucinogenic
carausel... i'm just fine...
                                 stinking of anger;
and believe me when i say:
      the last thing i need,
                                  is a female canvas;
when no woman inhabits
the same abode as two men,
   the two men of the abode can discuss
work...
                  work has no
hospitality in a woman's abode of
her: "work"...
                        i agree, while being a mother
and raising children,
  no man would dare speak of work
but only her children...
    but when a woman has finished
child rearing, and two men enter
her abode and speak of work...
                ah... a desert...
                        for what is there to be done?!
a pension from the already
given duties...
                   her body "*****"
my ***** are thrashing...
                           whizz whizz: to & fro...
make a priest blush,
before the choir boy, really, really
starts... shinging...
                        so woman returns,
to her childhood having supposed
raised a child to be man...
                      and if not in flesh,
then into the steppes of piling graves...
what does a woman become
after her "job" of motherhood and
child-rearing?
                        can she touch her own
shadow, and feed a soothing comf?
                     or...
                  what is woman,
         if not a man, without a question?

I don't have to be entertaining
I don't have to be excelling
I don't have to be achieving
I don't have to be inging anying