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"psychopathic" poems
May we live in and see interesting times, the old saying goes another offers that when the mind is blind, the eyes cannot see for me my days are interesting and the laughter readily and often comes for the grapes of wrath brings forth mirth filled grapes on grapevine tendrils As lemmings and sheep enact bellyaching absurdities, as the ridiculous does Veracity on sojourn and falsehood in residence with doors firmly closed Hamlet re-enacts hapless role, with Red Robin Hood and vigilantes to a tee eager audiences, participatory scenes in towns and cities, leaving empty homes come all and vent your spleen and satiate your prejudices without paying a fee This land belongs to us, it is our birthright and we will send Hamlet to the catacombs Nothing is private anymore, rights and freedom nailed, anywhere we roam Ophelia not only went to Italy, she went to Hull, Turnpike Lane and even Essex but a joke here, if all these were good, why did she come to me, you simple gnomes perchance unlike you common goons,  she knows distinction has no comparison to thee Your vacuous hate filled mind cannot see that difference in a Prince, that regally looms Act two, dim, fooled actors in their Beggars Opera, screaming, 'we oppose' with glee so called republicans, laughable in their ardent favor, ignorant of their lobotomy botches we will do Hamlet's head in, totally unaware theirs been done in, for the brains of fleas in a civilisation, our conscious and stable populace, roots for vigilante and mob rule, yeah for a man of distinction is a threat reminding you of your insignificance and lack of tomes Come friends, lets see how the home of Democracy, hounds a citizen for us all and we lets know that Robin Hood is alive and taxing, and 'Windrush' is still active in dispatches indigenous people power, meets criminal gang stalking, meets racism and we all drink tea and in true cowardly fashion, its all done by insidious, indictable, nefarious, malcontents and psychopathic crazies It is our proud duty that we should all ruin Hamlet, for mediocrity has no distinction for aspiration et excellence Copyright LaurenceA. JUNE 2018.All rights reserved.
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Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 8:00 PM UTC
Mediocrity knows no Distinction.....
May we live in and see interesting times, the old saying goes another offers that when the mind is blind, the eyes cannot see for me my days are interesting and the laughter readily and often comes for the grapes of wrath brings forth mirth filled grapes on grapevine tendrils As lemmings and sheep enact bellyaching absurdities, as the ridiculous does Veracity on sojourn and falsehood in residence with doors firmly closed Hamlet re-enacts hapless role, with Red Robin Hood and vigilantes to a tee eager audiences, participatory scenes in towns and cities, leaving empty homes come all and vent your spleen and satiate your prejudices without paying a fee This land belongs to us, it is our birthright and we will send Hamlet to the catacombs Nothing is private anymore, rights and freedom nailed, anywhere we roam Ophelia not only went to Italy, she went to Hull, Turnpike Lane and even Essex but a joke here, if all these were good, why did she come to me, you simple gnomes perchance unlike you common goons,  she knows distinction has no comparison to thee Your vacuous hate filled mind cannot see that difference in a Prince, that regally looms Act two, dim, fooled actors in their Beggars Opera, screaming, 'we oppose' with glee so called republicans, laughable in their ardent favor, ignorant of their lobotomy botches we will do Hamlet's head in, totally unaware theirs been done in, for the brains of fleas in a civilisation, our conscious and stable populace, roots for vigilante and mob rule, yeah for a man of distinction is a threat reminding you of your insignificance and lack of tomes Come friends, lets see how the home of Democracy, hounds a citizen for us all and we lets know that Robin Hood is alive and taxing, and 'Windrush' is still active in dispatches indigenous people power, meets criminal gang stalking, meets racism and we all drink tea and in true cowardly fashion, its all done by insidious, indictable, nefarious, malcontents and psychopathic crazies It is our proud duty that we should all ruin Hamlet, for mediocrity has no distinction for aspiration et excellence Copyright LaurenceA. JUNE 2018.All rights reserved.
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26
10. We walk side by side, wandering around restlessly. 9. Anxiety and Fear creeps between us. 8. "Trust? What is trust?" 7. What is Truth.? Which is a LIE? 6. I could see your deathly psychopathic gaze, staring me sharply. 5. The dark comes, the cold breeze fills in our gap, mysteriously. 4. You keep flinching and fidgeting your pale blue fingers. 3. "We can no longer be together" 2. Define Blood,Murder,Death 1. One 0. Zero, The End of OUR Lives
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Aug 24, 2014
Aug 24, 2014 at 7:07 AM UTC
Countdown...
In a city full of fake thugs and now record beef they just settle it with 8 slugs There rose a kid from out of Rogers parkway who kicks slow flows containing dopamine in the bars I slay like Dre Day I'm celebrating out the melon insane like dry water the sheep I'll slaughter like a psychopathic ********** with a daughter Allow me to introduce Nero The Damphir psychotic and I kick knowledge like a field goal my pen is spinning the rumpelillest gold causing static with the lyrical automatic I splatter brains on the floor it's a nasty habit to endure. I'm Chicago's poet I spit knowledge and split spines with the rhymes so solid no one will notice I roll this ***** up like the best cest and smoke it unless you take it off the wax and into the turf I'll make you taste the salt of the earth and after you're in the dirt I'll bear you like Paul you have no chance at all against me the pen is all I need to destroy then employ my victims my rhymes stay within them like That dude they net in juvenile detention center I'm centric on hip-hop that is I got love for cold crush sugarhill grandmaster flash and whodini Wu-Tang naughty by nature and Cypress Hill
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Jan 28, 2015
Jan 28, 2015 at 12:57 AM UTC
Chicago's Poet (Rap)
Where you going? What d’ya see? A hundred thousand polka dots A comin’ after me Polka dots and tater tots And french fried onion skins A priest in a confession booth Forgivin’ all our sins Two or three gorillas And an elephant in the room Someone tell the maitre’ d He’d best be leavin’ soon Cuz the waiter and the waitress Have figured out the plot And if he hangs around much longer He’s liable to be shot By a psychopathic mushroom Or a ****** off pizza pie While the rabid rocket scientist Wonders how he got that high The ********** with bedroom eyes Looks the other way, and The specialist in pantomime Does not know what to say. A hundred thousand looks at love Not a single one survives Yet, with regret and toil and sweat We go on with our lives. pwl 5/20/15
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May 21, 2015
May 21, 2015 at 11:46 PM UTC
Polka Dots and Tater Tots
I am a walking contradiction. I am six feet, five inches tall But I feel microscopic. I am a proud Englishman, Disgusted by his history and absent Of allegiances to any land, any country. I am a nomad, but there is so much I haven't seen. I am filled with wanderlust, But also crave routine, and hate change. I am a passionate writer, But it pains me to write. I am so very concerned by the world, Its people and emotions, Yet I distance myself, want no part in it, Thrive off any psychopathic habits I develop - I enjoy the disdain I have for most people. I am well-educated, above-average intelligence, But I know nothing... and always will. I am surrounded by people that I love and care about, But I feel so often, so desperately alone. I crave my own space, my solitude, The freedom of my own head and my mind's Undivided attention, but it haunts me, And I miss the feeling of warmth beside me in my bed. It taunts me. It makes me want to die. I am a walking contradiction because I desperately Want to live, if only to achieve something worth Being remembered for, worth dying for. There's no poetic justice, beauty in death of An ordinary man with uninteresting achievements. That is wasted oxygen to me, and wasted talent (if you can even call it that for) I crave success, but fear I am talentless. I am a walking contradiction. Sometimes I think I am delusional, But, then again, I am one of the most logical people I know. I'm boring. But I want to excite, to entertain. I am not funny, but I want to make people laugh. I want to live forever and die tomorrow. I am a walking contradiction. Nobody mourns the poor - of pocket or of soul. I fear that I am both. I fear that I am a walking contradiction. Completely devoid of purpose, of meaning But so hopelessly in love with the beauty of it all.
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Oct 30, 2016
Oct 30, 2016 at 11:15 AM UTC
Walking Contradiction
I am a walking contradiction. I am six feet, five inches tall But I feel microscopic. I am a proud Englishman, Disgusted by his history and absent Of allegiances to any land, any country. I am a nomad, but there is so much I haven't seen. I am filled with wanderlust, But also crave routine, and hate change. I am a passionate writer, But it pains me to write. I am so very concerned by the world, Its people and emotions, Yet I distance myself, want no part in it, Thrive off any psychopathic habits I develop - I enjoy the disdain I have for most people. I am well-educated, above-average intelligence, But I know nothing... and always will. I am surrounded by people that I love and care about, But I feel so often, so desperately alone. I crave my own space, my solitude, The freedom of my own head and my mind's Undivided attention, but it haunts me, And I miss the feeling of warmth beside me in my bed. It taunts me. It makes me want to die. I am a walking contradiction because I desperately Want to live, if only to achieve something worth Being remembered for, worth dying for. There's no poetic justice, beauty in death of An ordinary man with uninteresting achievements. That is wasted oxygen to me, and wasted talent (if you can even call it that for) I crave success, but fear I am talentless. I am a walking contradiction. Sometimes I think I am delusional, But, then again, I am one of the most logical people I know. I'm boring. But I want to excite, to entertain. I am not funny, but I want to make people laugh. I want to live forever and die tomorrow. I am a walking contradiction. Nobody mourns the poor - of pocket or of soul. I fear that I am both. I fear that I am a walking contradiction. Completely devoid of purpose, of meaning But so hopelessly in love with the beauty of it all.
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45
I don't see how Worrying can make you Tired. But it does. It makes me exhausted, it makes me an insomniac, It makes me think crazy, it makes me worry more than I already was. It makes me think every one has something happening to them Right now At this very moment. Something is Wrong. But I'm tired. I really am. I need my sleep. But my mind is fighting, Telling me over and over and over again that I need to check one last time Whether someone is okay Whether someone is alive Whether someone is someone is... **** it, there's the mental block. It happens. Usually. I think. I don't know. But what I do know is that It makes me unusual, It makes me sick, It makes me not normal. It makes people stare, It makes people scared, It makes people laugh and laugh and laugh While they call me names and mock me. They tell me I'm crazy, Mentally ******** a "Psychopathic pill popper". I know that I am. And I'm trying to stop. But it's hard. And I'm tired.
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Dec 27, 2013
Dec 27, 2013 at 9:03 AM UTC
Tired of Worrying
Boredom kills cheap thrills. Nothing to do, no one to ***** No drugs No ***** No smokes No fun Think I will sit for a bit. Think as I scratch and twitch. Neurotic fears ****** fantasies Sociopathic comments Psychopathic actions I don't care anymore. The fuse has been lit and there is no water for miles. Bang bang mother ****** bang bang boom. Amongst the rubble a bitter poem A poet in trouble that shouldn't have been left alone. Burnt Charred Dead. Smells like... Agony Fear Dumbness Numbness Aggression Depression Hate. Hate. Hate. Hate.
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Jul 10, 2013
Jul 10, 2013 at 12:07 AM UTC
Misanthropic Poet.
A sinister crimson smile spreads across my lips, thinking wicked thoughts while weapons I equip My inky eyes narrow as I step into the street, I have a dark night ahead & a hero to beat I feel it's time for a new villain to grow, one whose not afraid to watch the blood freely flow I'm going to show them all whose really chief, & never will I suffer any of their grief I ask before I **** them, one last query, "Why so serious?" I laugh viciously, their eyes get teary Then as the blood pours from a fresh cut, I go insane, merely a part of my psychopathic game So here I am, carving smiles into their faces, dicing their flesh into ribbons & laces Waiting for the hero to try & save the day, anticipating a new game for me to play Because around here, you can't just be mediocre They'll see, I'll show them, I am the Joker
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Dec 4, 2014
Dec 4, 2014 at 1:39 PM UTC
Twenty Four . I Am the Joker
No matter how many pills No matter how strong No matter the cocktail of meds I can't seem to be who they want. I can't be the ideal human I can't be that model of society I can't bring myself to swallow their rules I can't stand up and swallow their pills any longer I know what they want from me I know how they want me I know what everyone wants Everyone but me You know what its like Depression dragging behind you all day The psychopath in you screaming to gain reigns The crazy illusions as schizophrenia settles in The lack of anything as the sociopath wraps you in a blanket The madness that you've grown to love As it all slowly takes you your handed a cup with a pill It is the cage to keep your mind as it is alive It lets you step outside the hovel of your mind And lock all those memories and screaming away A new you Is it really you anymore Our reason is based upon who we've grown up as Why can't we think how we were made too Why are we to blame when we didn't raise ourselves The key to your mind was and will never be the pills The medicine is just a cage to mold you how they want us The key to our happiness is and will always be ourselves Its in all of our minds That sickening depression do what relieves it The psychopathic beast inside unleash it The schizophrenic visions embrace them The lack of humanity that blankets your mind Let yourself do as your supposed No one in this world can make you happy all the time No one but ourselves We are our own master of mind. If reason doesn't suit you release it. Madness is like a comforter when you wake up on a cold day It will keep you happy and healthy Accept the medicine if you want reality If reality even with the cage isn't comfortable come with me Dance in the madness of anarchy Let your mind run free Let yourself be who you were born to be
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Oct 23, 2013
Oct 23, 2013 at 9:04 AM UTC
Medicine and Madness
No matter how many pills No matter how strong No matter the cocktail of meds I can't seem to be who they want. I can't be the ideal human I can't be that model of society I can't bring myself to swallow their rules I can't stand up and swallow their pills any longer I know what they want from me I know how they want me I know what everyone wants Everyone but me You know what its like Depression dragging behind you all day The psychopath in you screaming to gain reigns The crazy illusions as schizophrenia settles in The lack of anything as the sociopath wraps you in a blanket The madness that you've grown to love As it all slowly takes you your handed a cup with a pill It is the cage to keep your mind as it is alive It lets you step outside the hovel of your mind And lock all those memories and screaming away A new you Is it really you anymore Our reason is based upon who we've grown up as Why can't we think how we were made too Why are we to blame when we didn't raise ourselves The key to your mind was and will never be the pills The medicine is just a cage to mold you how they want us The key to our happiness is and will always be ourselves Its in all of our minds That sickening depression do what relieves it The psychopathic beast inside unleash it The schizophrenic visions embrace them The lack of humanity that blankets your mind Let yourself do as your supposed No one in this world can make you happy all the time No one but ourselves We are our own master of mind. If reason doesn't suit you release it. Madness is like a comforter when you wake up on a cold day It will keep you happy and healthy Accept the medicine if you want reality If reality even with the cage isn't comfortable come with me Dance in the madness of anarchy Let your mind run free Let yourself be who you were born to be
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47
(for the unknown You) – Sweep up a mound of achievements; layer dogwood and newspaper beneath; find a small, secluded shoreline to sleep an endless sleep; shovel money (in at least twenty currencies), some status and fame onto the funeral pyre’s unremembering flame; write furiously with computer or pen, fill out the days’ whitespace with enthusiastic fantasy; revel on a fallacy (or three); win the gladiatorial games in the Corporate Arena; rediscover a bit of ancient folklore; set up nice altruistic societies to make orphans feel infinite; plant a little garden – give guidance in its growth; build four or five fine-but-small boats with richly decorated keels; fight for something worth believing, though I’m still unsure what that means… A(my) guess: lyricism and poetry and prose, musical composition, simply being kind and open; A suggestion(for You): lay Your hand on a patient’s slowing heart in a cancer ward, catch their tears with a jar and meditate on better things to do; give the old folks a laugh; steal the Elgin Marbles back for the Greeks, or, for the memory of ancient Greece; find where lay a psychopathic fascist’s bitter ashes and give them to the conspirators for closure; (for me) place letters on the graves of John Keats, Percy Shelley, Wystan Auden and William Yeats; rescind, abolish, annul, invalidate my station in God’s dysphoric, existential reverie; heap up beautiful words and send them off to sea inside a laptop on a cellophane-wrapped raft; (for both of us) think thoughts uplifting; smile thirty-three times a day (or more); plan for the future of ourselves and others; give just a bit of love to our mothers; sweep the kitchen and the city streets for free; by your garden plant a tree. Beyond these things for us to do, be proud-yet-humble, open-eyed and acquiescent; just accept; all things inanimate and animate, accept.
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Jul 4, 2012
Jul 4, 2012 at 7:58 AM UTC
Things to do
(for the unknown You) – Sweep up a mound of achievements; layer dogwood and newspaper beneath; find a small, secluded shoreline to sleep an endless sleep; shovel money (in at least twenty currencies), some status and fame onto the funeral pyre’s unremembering flame; write furiously with computer or pen, fill out the days’ whitespace with enthusiastic fantasy; revel on a fallacy (or three); win the gladiatorial games in the Corporate Arena; rediscover a bit of ancient folklore; set up nice altruistic societies to make orphans feel infinite; plant a little garden – give guidance in its growth; build four or five fine-but-small boats with richly decorated keels; fight for something worth believing, though I’m still unsure what that means… A(my) guess: lyricism and poetry and prose, musical composition, simply being kind and open; A suggestion(for You): lay Your hand on a patient’s slowing heart in a cancer ward, catch their tears with a jar and meditate on better things to do; give the old folks a laugh; steal the Elgin Marbles back for the Greeks, or, for the memory of ancient Greece; find where lay a psychopathic fascist’s bitter ashes and give them to the conspirators for closure; (for me) place letters on the graves of John Keats, Percy Shelley, Wystan Auden and William Yeats; rescind, abolish, annul, invalidate my station in God’s dysphoric, existential reverie; heap up beautiful words and send them off to sea inside a laptop on a cellophane-wrapped raft; (for both of us) think thoughts uplifting; smile thirty-three times a day (or more); plan for the future of ourselves and others; give just a bit of love to our mothers; sweep the kitchen and the city streets for free; by your garden plant a tree. Beyond these things for us to do, be proud-yet-humble, open-eyed and acquiescent; just accept; all things inanimate and animate, accept.
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44
What would you like for dinner, Honey? Pork? Beef? Human? Ah, I’m never sure about human. I don’t think I’ve ever had a free range or organic human ever, Which has always surprised me, seeing as they choose the environment they live in. Haha, they have the most ridiculous hierarchy of alpha males and leaders, The psychopathic lead the docile. I find it hard to eat this animal, Always in the back of my head are the rumours That they have a conscience Somewhere underneath their thin skulls. And all the controversies, About it not being quite human meat, Or being diseased, Or the weirdoes, with their “where did humans come from anyway?” They barely have any meat in them anyway, Useless animal really. Sometimes it’s just fat, sometimes just bone. I don’t like the chances. Too much risk. I think I’ll have some foie gras, or maybe some veal.
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May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 7:27 AM UTC
Meat for Dinner.
It pains me, a bit to think about the possibilities of life if you were here, if I could watch your smile bloom upon your face see the signs of laughter brewing just after I’ve said something silly. I’d cook you dinner and blush with happiness when you teased me for my utter lack of skill and after you would make hot cocoa for our movie marathon and we’d have punch drunk discussions on the philosophy of psychopathic ****** for dessert. While the credits rolled your eyes would droop and your head, heavy with sleep would rest sweetly on my shoulder. Would I kiss you, then? Softly, so as not to ruin the mood? Or fierce and biting with the breaking of long-held restraint? Would you invite me to your bed? And if you did, would I accept? Or would I stroke your hair and kiss you a gentle goodnight at your bedroom door? Would we grow old together, counting wrinkles as they form, marking the days with ridiculous anniversaries: first kiss, first fight, first joint bout of pyromania? Or would it end, perish early like so many things are wont to do? Would you die first? Or would I? And when we were gone would we have anyone to tell stories about us and the crazy things we no doubt said and did? Would I ever tell you this poem was about you? Maybe. Maybe, if you were here, I could.
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Jun 8, 2015
Jun 8, 2015 at 12:00 PM UTC
If You Were Here
Sentimental emotions needs to be shared Down at your little throne I glared I danced I frowned I smiled Oh silly jester of the court.. You only see a face of a fool! oh deary, please allow me to retort. I make the masses smile all the time my dear Why can't you see this jester's love appear? I juggle knives and flames for your amusement. Oh truly I do shrug in fear and in torment. /Hush little darling don't you frown This little jester will be your clown All he wants to do is to see you smile All he wants to do is laugh for awhile This psychopathic love that I have for you Would only be the beginning of our story for two. The jester smiles and the crowd goes nuts Alas the princess is with me but the pain still cuts/ Let the jester make you the grandest ball of them all Let your lover make you twirl round and round in this ball Let the crowd know this love that I held in the end A jester to a lover what a sweet sweet blend HaHaHaHaHaHa says the jester gone mad How could this fairy tale got so wrong and bad The jester hacks and slashes oh he is excited For my sweet deary all things should be dead. I thank the world for what it gave my heart Sadly a jester can only do much it rips him apart He can only make people smile and more is too much. Bodies everywhere my love pulseless, inside the jester he only laughed a bunch.
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Oct 11, 2017
Oct 11, 2017 at 3:53 PM UTC
Sweet Jester, Never Lover
The reason there aren't so many vampyres around these days is they don't like TV hype and the intrusions of TV news crews. It transpires that vampyres prefer late hours and like low light levels because they're egregarious and don't like to be seen inebrious in the middle of their heinous, intravenous revels. Also, unfavorable reviews about transfusions and the confusion caused by AIDS, at this juncture, has definitely reduced the appeal of being seduced by some crazed and gurgling Transylvanian bloodsucker lusting to puncture the jugular, or any other available vein again, especially when you don't know if they've disinfected their fangs or only licked them after draining their last victim. After all, vampyres were brought up in castles when there weren't antiseptics for gargles and they haven't been taught prophylactic criteria against such apocalyptic viral bacteria. And if you've ever seen vampyres with condoms on their teeth, you'll know what I mean.   It's a scream. Everyone finds them hilarious. It'd be easier to die laughing than to go down with anemia. Also, like everyone else, vampyres hate ridicule. No-one likes being seen as the fool.    And the other reason vampyres are scarce now is that there are so many genuine muggers, hoods, crims, druggies, financial leeches, homicidal maniacs, psychopathic liars and genocidal tendencies to conjure up real fears out there, that there's not much room left for quaint old-fashioned vampyres, poor dears.   But do you know something? Even though they were naughty, I miss their occasional **** I know it was gory, but those kisses, oh boy. We got into the femoral artery inside the thigh. It was ***** But when AIDs came along, that was it.  Definitely bye-bye. Nobody wanted to die.   These are the facts.   So these vampyres were starving and they reverted to bats.   Did a midnight flit, and that's the end of my story.
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Oct 31, 2012
Oct 31, 2012 at 6:01 PM UTC
Goodbye to Vampyres
The reason there aren't so many vampyres around these days is they don't like TV hype and the intrusions of TV news crews. It transpires that vampyres prefer late hours and like low light levels because they're egregarious and don't like to be seen inebrious in the middle of their heinous, intravenous revels. Also, unfavorable reviews about transfusions and the confusion caused by AIDS, at this juncture, has definitely reduced the appeal of being seduced by some crazed and gurgling Transylvanian bloodsucker lusting to puncture the jugular, or any other available vein again, especially when you don't know if they've disinfected their fangs or only licked them after draining their last victim. After all, vampyres were brought up in castles when there weren't antiseptics for gargles and they haven't been taught prophylactic criteria against such apocalyptic viral bacteria. And if you've ever seen vampyres with condoms on their teeth, you'll know what I mean.   It's a scream. Everyone finds them hilarious. It'd be easier to die laughing than to go down with anemia. Also, like everyone else, vampyres hate ridicule. No-one likes being seen as the fool.    And the other reason vampyres are scarce now is that there are so many genuine muggers, hoods, crims, druggies, financial leeches, homicidal maniacs, psychopathic liars and genocidal tendencies to conjure up real fears out there, that there's not much room left for quaint old-fashioned vampyres, poor dears.   But do you know something? Even though they were naughty, I miss their occasional **** I know it was gory, but those kisses, oh boy. We got into the femoral artery inside the thigh. It was ***** But when AIDs came along, that was it.  Definitely bye-bye. Nobody wanted to die.   These are the facts.   So these vampyres were starving and they reverted to bats.   Did a midnight flit, and that's the end of my story.
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37
Conversation overloaded psychopathic episode Choke me till I learn to die Yet to die is to live a lie Swords and knives cut me deep But my stature I still keep Words so mighty are all that hurt Rub them in my face like dirt Cut me till my tears run dry Sing me a broken lullaby Demons rise angels fall I try so hard to forget it all Broken dreams rise from the dead Broken promises stuck in my head I will not cry I will not brake My broken heart you shall not take Beat me till I learn to listen Still in my eyes you glow and glisten You're not better then any one Just because you hold a gun Choke me cut me beat me down Yet shoot me and I'll always be around Forever written on your heart Bitter memories taste so **** I said that you would regret Now you will never forget My name is written on your skin Blood on your hands as proof of sin
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Jan 4, 2016
Jan 4, 2016 at 5:12 PM UTC
Abusive
grey eyes and gold buzzcut psychopathic smile, tongue like candy calloused palms, arms like a bomb shelter wrapped in a bow of good intentions and charm christmas came early that year, you were all mine.
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Oct 19, 2017
Oct 19, 2017 at 1:12 AM UTC
body like a gift
Thank you Shaun, for the pictures and flowers. Thank you Lily, for the ray of sunlight. Thank you Bry, for psychopathic measure. Thank you D, for the feeling of good pleasure. Thank you Tay, for tea and bears. Thank you Meg, for Sherlock and apples. Thank you Zee, for robots and twins. Thank you Carrie, for fangirling and friendship. Thank you Liam, for support and superheroes. Thank you Paul, for understanding and ingenious. Thank you Ceryen, for fake names and shared tears. Thank you Chiara, for Italian cheese and fanfics. Thank you Rod, for fish and evil. Thank you Lia, for kitties and souls. Thank you Stephen, for gravestones and vegetables. Thank you Christine, for mercurial and poetical love. Thank you Caitlin, for product design and Poundland. Thank you Jordan, for weddings and Brenda. Thank you Conaill, for DT and Courbet. Thank you Brendan, for axes and aunts. Thank you Tom, for form time and Brittany. Thank you George, for philosophies and pigeons. Thank you Morgan, for video games and hearing. Thank you Alice, for Pokemon and tumblr. Thank you Aliyah, for hearing aids and help. Thank you all, for reading and listening. Thank you, me, for absolutely nothing.
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Oct 19, 2014
Oct 19, 2014 at 10:13 AM UTC
Thank You.
The worse thing I could see in this life to me is the insight on what's going on inside the mind of another person whose eyes when tested are wide open yet half closed an glazed fixed with a message No rest **** bested Just like me with a feeling that's overrated I'm never waking cause your never sleeping Yeah that's what we call self medicated Drug dedicated To ****** up to hate it Even when your looking into the eyes of another behind a two way mirror that's not so two way I'm faceless A psychopath unlike the rest So let me color this Wait did you say something Whos there No one It's just you Then whos looking back Just yourself That doesn't look like me Why because they walk talk and dress different No because I'm here and their there A fact created by self absorbed ******** who believe to have made it A bunch of fakes spitting venomous lies deceit filled eyes Stabbing the backs of friends and foes alike believing to be justified with what it is they do So don't you even begin to believe that **** too Now count to blue and remember there's been to few of us created with two sets of eyes so different yet their look is self imitated Originality being one oh one over one duplicated known to be unrelated Something I see each time I see my reflection so you're the worst thing I could see along with this ****** up connection Now don't get me wrong it’s amazing how we in no way tried to be found found each other But I don't know if i’m ready for the inside tour of another just like me but uncovered A psychopathic lover And as I begin to laugh I hope like me you won't quit because if your like me we're made for this wicked **** I'm ****** glitch Broke like a ***** Why am I so lyrically rich That being said I gotta say I'm happy that **** so far has stayed where it belongs tucked away unlike this song Inside my mind with the imagination creations I've created in my crayola crayon nation made education
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Oct 13, 2018
Oct 13, 2018 at 1:13 PM UTC
The Worse Color I Could See
The worse thing I could see in this life to me is the insight on what's going on inside the mind of another person whose eyes when tested are wide open yet half closed an glazed fixed with a message No rest **** bested Just like me with a feeling that's overrated I'm never waking cause your never sleeping Yeah that's what we call self medicated Drug dedicated To ****** up to hate it Even when your looking into the eyes of another behind a two way mirror that's not so two way I'm faceless A psychopath unlike the rest So let me color this Wait did you say something Whos there No one It's just you Then whos looking back Just yourself That doesn't look like me Why because they walk talk and dress different No because I'm here and their there A fact created by self absorbed ******** who believe to have made it A bunch of fakes spitting venomous lies deceit filled eyes Stabbing the backs of friends and foes alike believing to be justified with what it is they do So don't you even begin to believe that **** too Now count to blue and remember there's been to few of us created with two sets of eyes so different yet their look is self imitated Originality being one oh one over one duplicated known to be unrelated Something I see each time I see my reflection so you're the worst thing I could see along with this ****** up connection Now don't get me wrong it’s amazing how we in no way tried to be found found each other But I don't know if i’m ready for the inside tour of another just like me but uncovered A psychopathic lover And as I begin to laugh I hope like me you won't quit because if your like me we're made for this wicked **** I'm ****** glitch Broke like a ***** Why am I so lyrically rich That being said I gotta say I'm happy that **** so far has stayed where it belongs tucked away unlike this song Inside my mind with the imagination creations I've created in my crayola crayon nation made education
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45
Stuff may happen but I don't understand. I don't know why they talk to me, I don't know why I'm here. I'd rather cease to exist Because then I won't be spoken to. When people open their mouths to me I wonder what they are doing. Can't they tell I'm basically incompetent, At conversing as they do? And I want to love my mother. Most of the time I'm sure I do, But I'm not sure how to anymore. That's what happens when you give but don't receive. I want to flourish socially, At least enough so I can manage to achieve something, But it's getting harder it seems. Sometimes I feel I can't be bothered With just anything. I feel kind of surreal, Like things are happening but I'm not very there. Sometimes I want my daydreams to all just go away, But whilst I say that I am begging them to stay. It makes me almost wish they could just give me antipsychotics, And that they would help everything wrong with me that no one understands. Even what seems expected to be understood, It seems like no one does. Once again, there's another way Of how I am an outcast Way more than once and for always.
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Sep 15, 2016
Sep 15, 2016 at 4:37 PM UTC
The Antisocial Almost Psychopathic
Trying to forget, but it always comes back. Like ****** on a stressful day. Like El Diablo when I take those fancy colored tabs. Pull back, Push in. Pass it to me. Pass me on. Pass out. Time to remember. Psychopathic symbols, symbolic static, stares, start seeing.... Something? Happy Birthday to me.
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Jul 20, 2014
Jul 20, 2014 at 3:16 PM UTC
a Birth
It feels more times than not My character is misconceived Wherein my affinity for emotion is Either ill received, or begs condescension Such vindictive decrees for Souls just as flawed as me The difference is Mine are the only flaws that I can see. Void of emotion? I prefer to think that I can Differentiate between A fleeting feel And what is real - What of the lack of social devotion? I am only at my best Around those who create from the heart I discard the rest, because I am the company I keep, And I've kept from the start. Over the top flattery? I beg to differ. You mistake the way I speak and the things I do For my romantic battery The thought of which makes me quiver - It says a little something about you, too. You fail to see That I can so naturally Draw emotion from the smallest of things Do you think it is through arrogance that I sing? A highly internalized being, who only creates things To feed an insatiable egotistical craving? Clearly the life that you lead Is just lacking fantasy, or a sense of meaning... I have met people who are metaphorical gateways, No, actual ley lines of human creativity. I wonder if their work would Make you question your brand Of Humanity.
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Apr 28, 2017
Apr 28, 2017 at 10:44 PM UTC
Qualms of a Psychopathic Musician
Nostalgic hypochondriac, psychopathic goddess--we pray to your weekends.                      Sunday night industries hold lunch breaks, starting with a red bear,                         a crude blue-eyed, red bear             by the hands of a child.                              Soft steps. Physical form.                    Its eyes suddenly gleam                    as it moves,                                  red colors run                                                            forming waving arms that swim into river canals.    Dripping rain forming acid that eats away at the sides of the darkroom. Winding staircase trees rooted and spiraled like broken porcupine barbs existing off the wall. Each leaf made of copper, tips of yellow                     floating just as drops from the beginning,                                             expanding to the form                                                                            of hot air balloons.                                                 Some of them supernova'd             --momentarily spreading themselves thin                                                      --layers of butter coating this world.                 each puddle of lard echoes with the voice                                 and memory of silver-eyed Alice                 and her children.                                                                        Irises of cut granite,                                                                                 wine-stained pupils,                                                            she breaths like Jesus on the cross                                    --inhales of his bear pelt.
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Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 2:38 PM UTC
Cigarettes and Carrots (part 3)
Nostalgic hypochondriac, psychopathic goddess--we pray to your weekends.                      Sunday night industries hold lunch breaks, starting with a red bear,                         a crude blue-eyed, red bear             by the hands of a child.                              Soft steps. Physical form.                    Its eyes suddenly gleam                    as it moves,                                  red colors run                                                            forming waving arms that swim into river canals.    Dripping rain forming acid that eats away at the sides of the darkroom. Winding staircase trees rooted and spiraled like broken porcupine barbs existing off the wall. Each leaf made of copper, tips of yellow                     floating just as drops from the beginning,                                             expanding to the form                                                                            of hot air balloons.                                                 Some of them supernova'd             --momentarily spreading themselves thin                                                      --layers of butter coating this world.                 each puddle of lard echoes with the voice                                 and memory of silver-eyed Alice                 and her children.                                                                        Irises of cut granite,                                                                                 wine-stained pupils,                                                            she breaths like Jesus on the cross                                    --inhales of his bear pelt.
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27
In our mythological mechanism of the senses, let us reach beyond the guardians of the night. Teach me your wisdom oh spirit of paraphiliac and psychopathic depravity, and help me to differentiate between those various entities. Oh, reptilian god of majnu, I can feel the enveloping uncertainty of your sensual and dark licentiousness. Your Goetic sexuality is ceremonially bewitching, whilst the season of darkness lingers before us. I embrace your possession of madness.
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Jul 16, 2014
Jul 16, 2014 at 11:52 PM UTC
Sensual Evocations