You carefully destroyed me

Uncovered the most tender parts of my core with detective kit compliments

Places where I never let anyone feed.

You gnawed on the clitoral soul that I thought I buried years ago

Until I lay sprawled beneath you, no pulse.

Necrophiliacs like us best when we cannot match their heaving breaths

Or reach out to wipe the sweat off their brow, induced from fear of poor performance.

How unfortunate for you that I am an empty casket.

Accustomed to cremation, I turned to ashes upon your final assault.

Try to grasp me again, I’ll slip through your fingers.

There isn’t an urn strong enough to keep a woman condensed

A walking corpse, undead amongst a society of necrophiliacs.

I miss you like maps miss fingers,
Like mikes miss singers,
Like bells miss ringers,
Like cakes miss bakers,
Like lakes miss boats,
Like bad swimmers miss floats,
Like politicians miss votes,
Like doting parents miss school plays,
Like nymphomaniacs miss lays,
Like necrophiliacs  miss graves,
Like hypochondriacs miss prescriptions,
Like ****** misses addictions,
Like carpets miss friction,
Like Billy Bunter misses midnight feasts,
Like the grim reaper misses grief,
Like Henry misses the goodfellas,
Like sand sculptures miss umbrellas,
Like Rubix cube devotees miss puzzles,
Like rabid dogs miss muzzles,
Like Van Gough missed his brushes,
Like speed freaks miss rushes,
Like pens miss paper,
Like the Mona Lisa missed Pater,
Like the canvas misses the creator,
Like how the thirsty miss water,
Like the hungry miss food,
Like ***** miss the lewd,
Like the mind misses mood,
Like the tides miss the moon,
Like the sane miss the loons,
Like the dark misses the light,
Like the brave miss the fright,
Like the kite misses the wind.
Like a phone misses a ring
Like every misses thing.

Humans are ****** up.
We search and search for the approval of others.
     We coordinate clothes in order to get "that image."
     We make our music selections based on what everyone else is listening to.
     We don't shower because hygiene is so uncool.
     We starve our selves to get concaving clavicles.
     We boast of the ***** and drug abuse in order to appear "hard."
Why?
     Who cares what he/she is wearing if it makes them feel good?
     Why give two ***** if they don't know that band, it doesn't make them inferior or you superior?
     ******* shower, if you don't shower for own personal enjoyment then power to you but because "greasy hair is in" isn't acceptable because I can tell you, it's not.
     Collarbones aren't hot or romantic, the only thing deep about them is the depth, very few people like to cuddle skeletons, maybe necrophiliacs but if you want to cuddle a necrophiliac then good luck to you.
     Being a heavyweight, smoking ****, cigarettes, hard drugs aren't ******* cool. If you do them then do it for yourself and not because you want other people to know you do them.
Riddle me this,
     If we accepted ourselves for the clothes we wear, the choices we choose, the body we've been bestowed, and everything we are, then would we need others' approval?
    Is having an image all that great? Think about it, your image in the mirror, you dissect it until you want to change almost everything about yourself.
    I understand that I am the worst hypocrite of them all because I have yet to approve of myself but that's me. I accept that. Can you?

hacking _ cutting #6
really, it's all about rhyming?!
if it rhymes it's this
art form?
        really? if it rhymes,
it qualifies?
no wonder this "art form" is
currently on life-support
machines,
turning into necrophiliacs;
i can't believe that rhyming
is all that defines poetics,
esp. given the current vein
of journalistic endeavour...
last time i heard,
poetry was both beside
crafting rhymes,
as it was beside crafting novels,
it was one of the things,
in that cartesian / heraclitaen
mixology of an up-kept
continuum of thought:
a sudden pause / a sudden
breath...
  i still can't believe poetry is
rhyme-centric...
      as if poetry really needed to
be easily identifiable...
which it is, when rhymed...
well, **** me, should it also become
grecian, and thereby prosaic to boot!
or perhaps it was just that,
to begin with?
      perhaps this "science"
of writing, was never to be
limited by rubrics of "identifiable
constraints";
it's almost no wonder that
people enjoy poetics,
english teachers killed it,
   telling people to aspire
to a broken arm castes of rigid
insurance of observable technicalities,
rhyme over spontaneity!
rhyme over spontaneity!
      poetry is disgusting these days,
because it settled into
a pose of being "scientific" -
in fact poetry is overly scientific,
which is written, without
any scientific terms, such as noun,
pronoun, verb...
   whereas poetry ought to be a free arm
venture, it's nothing more than
an arm within a caste...
apparently it's only when sentences
rhyme, that there's an identifiable
poetics being presented...
what a horrid scenario to undertake.