The screamer, The criminal, The fool
And me
How did I land in the hands of
These three?

The screamer, she laughs about
Mother's harsh rule
She's keeping me sane with
The crim and the fool.

The criminal, as he is called
By my peers
Likes to feast on the romance of life
And our fears.

The fool is forgivable, if
Only when
He shuts up and lets the crim
Have a word in

The fool and the criminal
Drive me insane
And I vent to the geniuses though
They aren't to blame.

Though the screamer can't brag about
Being much better
I still must work with them,
So I will let her.

The screamer, The criminal, The fool
And me
Our lives all depend on
Our comradery
So I'll put aside any prejudice
That I've got
I'll drag us all through this
So we might
Have a shot

Hold my hands above my head
Push me down into the bed
Bite me harder, rip my flesh
Put my sanity to the test
  
Do it harder, I like it rough
Do it faster, you know I'm tough
I'm a screamer baby,  so you know
For you, I'll put on a show

You can ruin me and torture me
I won't charge you, do it for free
Rip out all my feelings deep inside
**** me baby and make me cry

Harder, faster, stronger, please
Make me beg til I'm on my knees
I'm a screamer girl, that you know
For you baby, I'll put on a show

neither very social
nor I'm vocal
silent screamer
a lonely dreamer
neither a mood swing
nor in a bing
don't mind
if you don't find
as I'm in my cocoon
may be back soon
but for a while
let me hibernate in my style

not a saint
just complacent
ridicule not, I'm not a clown
on a journey unknown.... my own
deep ponderer
solo wanderer
not a wayward
just traveling inward
judge me not O dear!
for you I'm there
but let me be insignificant
an abstinent.....

It began as
    a low sob
       growing from a whisper
Fueled with
    anger
        anguish
Momentum gained as it added
   the voices of
      heartbreak
        desperation
               fear.
Painful to hear
    the depth of
       an inconsolable hurt.
Can anyone ease
    her screams into the dark?
Hold her?
     Tell her it will be OK?
I wish I could
   I try....
Then comes the stark realization
     The screamer
         is me........

What's it like to trade your friends for all the latest trends in music and art, when it's not from the heart?

And I'm wearing these heartbreaks as a symbol of pride to help to remind me that I'm doing just fine.

You can't keep me silent cause I'm a screamer from rooftops, a screamer in car rides.

I'm a dweller of basements and a stone's throw from walking to find peace of mind.

So we're packing our boxes and selling out short. And when they ask us, we'll say it couldn't have worked.

This isn't a good bye. It's a bitter "farewell." I've known you for too long, so believe me: "I'll see you in hell."

This isn't a good bye. It's a bitter "*******." I've known you for too long and this is long over due.

This isn't a good bye. It's a bitter "I'm done." I've known you for too long, that's it and I'm gone.

Oh Baby, you've done.

Captured my essence
and made me think
that
I
exist.

For a
slit-wrist second
in "time".

Until them sparks
make fire.
& take you up in his flames.

A bad dream.
Filmed right between my
starry-eyes.

Soul Photography,
uhhhh
Flashbacks of missin' you.

Until then,
I will be all black
& nothing more.

Than a wannabe-writer in the
mourning.
And a secret-screamer at night.

A bird glides gracefully whilst the discolored leaves are aflutter
   In the wind that rocks the cold rotted wood of the window's shutter;
   All while the obstructive trees cause the wind’s speech to stutter.
   Yet she still howls with an intense pressure on me chest; I can barely utter
   My feelings toward this heavy air of eeriness about me—
   Nearly as heavy as the insignificance in the noose of the tree—
   A decomposed mutilation of all that is good, hung for all to see—
   A shriveled neck and half-dissolved eyes that still long to be free—
   The blood long lost, the body now pale—why does it stress?
   Why is life in its eyes, why does it shrug off Death’s caress?
   And as the sun is fully blotted by the black clouds, unfatigued,
   A hot stench like the enhancement of rotten fruit—yet I am intrigued—
   Descends upon me with the force of a vise equipped with knives—
   ‘Tis the horror of what only the spirits of the dead can contrive.
  
   And visions—horrible visions!—overwhelm me and present terrors:—!
   Rain steadily falls and patters incessantly upon an accursed Earth;
   Surrounding the hanging man are graves—and so begins the second birth:—!
   The tombstones crack and crumble into hundreds of jagged stones;
   An earthquake manifests quickly, and violently rattled my bones
   And remorselessly disembowels the Earth of the trees’ roots;
   Suddenly far more prominent is the awful stench of the fruits;
   An unsettling revelation is brought to my undivided attention:
   The tombstones’ collapse and the earthquake are not in relation,
   But the earthquake is a result of monsters unleashing their power.
   And the tombstones—but what of the tombstones’ fall?
   Startled, I see that replacing the hanging man is a voodoo doll,
   Dancing with its tiny limbs and smiling nonstop, locking its black eyes
   On my horrified self; I cringe and tremble in this demonic guise.
   A screeching note erupts from its unmoving mouth; it hovers in the air
   While I am frightfully dehumanized by the doll’s inexorable stare.
   While the screech lingers, the wet soil of the graves shifts quietly,
   The noise of splitting, wet dirt drowned out by the screech of cruelty.
   As it becomes clear the voodoo doll’s dance is one of conjuring,
   ’Tis revealed to me that the tombstones fell because of remembering:
   The dead do not believe they should be remembered, reflected upon...
   The second birth’s process is agonizingly long as I become wan.
   But before I nearly faint—and leave the visions—I receive an unwanted help:
   The doll’s gesticulations are directed toward me; even so, she raises Hell.
   My mind is frightfully clear to see all before me, and the dizziness has left.
   Oh, why these visions? Why with this horrible curse I am blessed?
  
   I am met with the most terrifying sight of all; my heart quickens.
   As the rain falls harder and begins to puddle, my blood thickens
   And very nearly ceases to flow as I watch the dead come to life.
   Gnarled fingers, some broken and some missing, ignore Death’s inflicted strife.
   Fingers—disjointed, protruding in random directions, treelike;
   Grime under the fingernails—fingernails, chipped or long spikes;
   Hardly any flesh on the old, ***** bones; muscles dripping off.
   Bodies, mutilated by natural decomposition, burst with raging coughs
   From the eviscerated Earth, black with age, red with dried blood.
   The dead, limping and holding what organs they still have, slip in the mud,
   Fall, fill their empty ribcages with it, and scream as limbs are torn away;
   Scream, as they are free from the grave, the path that led them astray.
  
   Oh, the feelings of dread that are eroding my scarred mind!
   What awful horrors have I stumbled upon, what did I find?
   One undead woman is staring at me with unfortunately soulless eyes;
   A few long hairs messily fall from her shriveled head, infested with flies,
   And her eyes—oh, her eyes!—are as small as raisins, wrinkly and white;
   They hover in her sockets, the skull only half-covered—pure fright!—
   With dead skin. Why is her toothless skull grinning mischievously?
   Is she enjoying my terror that leaves my trembling grievously?
   Abruptly, the still, deformed grotesquerie releases a sickening gurgle
   And violently shakes, as if under some overwhelming mental struggle.
   Her jaw falls open, unattended from the necessary muscles’ absence,
   And screaming laughter flows out of her agape mouth; malevolence
   Seeps from it in the form of pitchy black smoke and tightens the air.
   And all the while is still her unfailing, gut-wrenching stare!
   Her chest, dilapidated from the Earth's engulfment of her, explodes—
   A black skeletal hand, emerging from the body that was its abode—
   A demon, a black skeleton, blood gushing from its mouth, fire in its eyes—
   And tattered wings spread as the screamer takes to the hellish skies.
   It hovers around the dancing voodoo doll, circling her,
   Worshipping the smiling thing that was sewn with maleficence and fear.
  
   “But what are these things?” I ask as the undead congregate.
   “Is this how horrible life will be beyond Hell’s gates?”
   But it is made revealed to me that the people are eternal
   Inhabitants of Hell—Hell inside me; the spiritual realm is internal.
   “Why do they gather around the doll and bow in submission?”
   But, to my dismay, there is no answer to this deathly war of attrition.
  
   “Vultures!” I hear, a thunderous, wicked voice from up above.
   “You do not know what you are to believe, or what to love!”
   The dead dance in slow, uncoordinated movements, circling
   The doll. Even the shadows ominously flicker, no longer lurking.
   The black demon floats and gestures to the moaning dead,
   Beckoning them to rise from their permanent deathbeds
   To chant and flail their measly arms in worship of the voodoo.
   What have I done to be cast into this dangerous world askew?
   “You are a vulture, searching helplessly for something to feast
   “When the desperate hunger is turning you into the demons’ beast.
   “And when the food is gone, you search for your next dying idol.
   “For you, the inevitable conquest for falsities will never be final.”
  
[][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][]
  
   The room of a once peaceful dwelling is a victim of an apocalypse:—
   ‘Tis as if it has mutated into the imagery of a drug’s dangerous trip:—
   The walls are bent in, threatening to collapse under the pressure;
   Books are shredded, shelves are upturned, and obliterated is the dresser;
   Blood drips from numerous cracks in the ceiling and paints the walls.
   ‘Tis many moments of being awestruck before I realize the mirror calls.
   Vision is blurry, a hollow ringing sings, and my surroundings fade.
   My legs of jelly drag my heavy body into the dark hall’s shade.
  
   I yell at the sight in the cracked mirror, but my voice is painfully missing.
   It appears as if my entire face is losing its grip and is slowly slipping.
   Gravity’s grappling hooks have taken a strong hold and are pulling.
   The entirety of my eyes is almost visible from the disturbing lack of coverage.
   My jaw refuses to rise back up, as if the muscles have lost their leverage.
   It adds to the terror—how unsightly I am! How revolting!
   I am no longer human but an otherworldly, disgusting being!
   A scream that is not my own bursts from my agape mouth and shatters the mirror.
   It deafens my ears like a knife; I feel the fiery tearing of my vocal cords.
   “Vulture,” I vaguely hear but clearly curl my dry, thin lips to.
   “Go, find your food, find your idol, bathe in what you think is true.”
   Violently, desperately, crashing into walls with wild, uncontrollable limbs,
   I purposelessly search for the spirit that will welcome my immovable sins.

you're screaming words at me
i try to make them out
give them meaning
my hearts beating
pulse rushing
stop
just stop
let me be please
i can't take any more
i am not like you
i am not a screamer
more or less a dreamer
you cannot make me into you
please
let me go

Crawling thing with six legs,
I'll keep you in mind...

Flying thing with big eyes,
I ate you just in time,

Now crawly-bug I eat you too,
I lap my face to clean off your goo,

Screams from heaven, I must hide!
Yesterday my brother died...

I slither into pile of leaves,
I hope the screamer didn't see,

Stay still, prepare and lick the air,
I smell more crawlies over there...

I get too cool and run for rock,
To sun myself,
And in my sluggish state I lie on rock...

                                                        ­            “Ahhhh!”

I'm grabbed and now I'm in the blue!
The Screamer eats me and my last crawly too!

On the first night
of the full moon,
the primeval sack of ocean
broke,
& I gave birth to you
little woman,
little carrot top,
little turned-up nose,
pushing you out of myself
as my mother
pushed
me out of herself,
as her mother did,
& her mother's mother before her,
all of us born
of woman.

I am the second daughter
of a second daughter
of a second daughter,
but you shall be the first.
You shall see the phrase
"second ***"
only in puzzlement,
wondering how anyone,
except a madman,
could call you "second"
when you are so splendidly
first,
conferring even on your mother
firstness, vastness, fullness
as the moon at its fullest
lights up the sky.

Now the moon is full again
& you are four weeks old.
Little lion, lioness,
yowling for my *******,
rowling at the moon,
how I love your lustiness,
your red face demanding,
your hungry mouth howling,
your screams, your cries
which all spell life
in large letters
the color of blood.

You are born a woman
for the sheer glory of it,
little redhead, beautiful screamer.
You are no second ***,
but the first of the first;
& when the moon's phases
fill out the cycle
of your life,
you will crow
for the joy
of being a woman,
telling the pallid moon
to go drown herself
in the blue ocean,
& glorying, glorying, glorying
in the rosy wonder
of your sunshining wondrous
self.

for KA*

There is something in this for both of us. We have chemistry, let's be lab partners. Help me with problems like which would make a better poem: a pandemic, a wolverine, or a broken heart? You know I only chose you because you enjoy my fondling your blond *** as you lean over the Bunsen burner, because we have flammable *** on the periodic table, but this is more serious than calculations or *******. As a poet, I need to access the deeper moaning of reality, but you are a screamer, not a moaner. Let's experiment anyhow. Lift that skirt and let's explore something elemental, make a new molecule, feel the reaction. Help me probe the fundamentals of creation and I may love you, though surely not enough, as we are both non-valent. Even though we may never bond, we are in this together, partner. Lift your beaker to my lips. Outcomes are never certain.

What would either of us scream tonight,
And why am I so worried about it?
The hypothetical situation I imagine
Is always an argument
Because I keep it realistic.

You wouldn’t come back to make things easier,
Change your ways
Or make up for the past,
But to yell at me one more time
To get thrill that you admitted it gave you.

Because you said you knew I wouldn’t leave,
And you left me wishing that I had.

an empty scream is heard
it comes from the side of the road
and flows down the highway
ignored by all that knows

the screamer keeps on whispering
and no one really cares
she sits and cries her helpless moans
whimpering without a care

but no one can help her
her precious torn up soul
for she is past redemption
for she has reached her core

it came to most like a shock
possibly a silent cry
but the most powerful realizations
are the ones who lose it all

and so everyone watches
but no one seems to care
because the screamer sits and cries
her helpless moans, so helpless

On a remote
Part of the Great Wall
There are sad spirits
Looking for justice
And many demons
Amongst these spirits
Is one of a
Woman who cried colourred ink
Instead of tears
And
Had an ear shattering scream
Which will **** you.
Who was possessed
And died from
The possession.

As I walk
Into the forest to calm my
Mind it does not work
And so I screem
So loud that my soul
Leaves my body
For being in
The
Forest
Earthbound
Because I wouldn't cool off.

I am what I am no changing that,
I was once like you, but that was
a diffrent time no longer am I that.

I walk all day and in to the night,
If you meet me alone you may be
shocked that I look like that.
My hair not brushed my teeth not
White now, but are yellow and black.

My clothes are filthy, you look and
Say is there brains on that. I walk
Never run, I cant be doing with that.
Have you met my friends, they don't
Say much except aaaahhh, and a gurgle
But thats the food swallowing back.

You can run, you may even hide, but
One day you,ll be one of us, it only
Takes a bite. I love flesh in the morning,
Noon or night, doesn't bother me if
Your a screamer or lie there like a sack.

When I'm finished you,ll not have
To worry as you,ll soon come back.
The life of a zombie is walking long
Distances, not a lot of chit chat, but
When I see food you better run as
I,ll be wanting a piece of that.

Alarm clocks
are not friends,
they bark and
they scream.

Little Maxwellan lived on a farm
Smack in the middle of nowhere.
The pasturage was small, not great for cattle,
But boy, the veg could grow there.
To keep the young lad out of their hair,
And to keep him out of trouble,
Pa had decided ‘’this boy needs a job’’
And had handed Maxwellan a shovel.

‘’You see that small melon patch there,
Next to the cabbage and winged bean?
I want you to tend to those plants,
And grow me a gourd like I’ve never seen.
If you’re patient till harvest’s end,
And produce a proud looking fruit,
We’ll enter it in the county fair.
Win, and you can keep the loot.’’

Well, little Maxwellan, inspired by fame and riches,
Set out to inspect his melon patch.
It was the Chinese kind, with waxy, oval crop.
Ma would sometimes cook up a batch.
You’d put them in soups or stews,
For their mild sweet flavour.
Add ginger, add garlic,
And, oh! That dish, you’d savour.

‘’First we must build a stronger structure
From which to suspend the vine.
A new lattice wouldn’t hurt,’’ said Pa.
Together, we’ll do it right this time.’’
So Maxwellan got to work;
Helped his father as best he could.
They built the structure and the lattice,
And all of it looked good.

‘’The rest is up to you now, son.
I trust you’ll do just fine,
Put all your heart into your work,
And whatever you do will shine.’’
Well, for the next hundred days or so,
Maxwellan did just that.
He weeded and watered religiously,
Watching his precious pepos grow fat.

Of all the plants hung from the lattice,
One prospered especially well.
Hanging like a big, plump balloon,
A prize specimen, all could tell.
‘’I know which one will enter the contest!
Look at its thick wax coating!
It’s the biggest one you’ve ever seen, Pa!
I might as well be gloating!’’

When the time came, at the end of harvest,
The gourd was almost as tall as Maxwellan,
‘’Here,’’ said Pa. ‘’Help me lift it into the cart.
Now there’s a fine wax melon!‘’
When they arrived, it was not yet noon,
Though the fairground was already abuzz.
There was giant produce everywhere!
A strange spectacle it was!

To tent number seven, they carted the big thing,
Where it was weighed, measured and inspected.
Maxwellan could only hold his breath,
And pray that his gourd was selected.
In the back of the room, he spotted Ashley Ford
In a pretty, flower-pattern dress.
So he walked on over, caught her eye,
And tried his best to impress.

‘’Hi Ashley! You look very pretty.
Did you come to see the contest?
I brought a giant wax melon that I grew by myself.
It will surely be the best!’’
Ashley Ford thanked Maxwellan
And wished him best of luck.
Then, she reached up, kissed his cheek,
And left the boy dumbstruck.

Soon after, the chief judge rose,
And called for the attention of the crowd.
Round as a southern screamer, the man,
Also, just as loud...
‘’Ladies, Gentlemen! Ahem! Please!
The jury has come to a conclusion!
This was no easy task, I must confess,
As we have seen quality in profusion.

Maxwellan’s enormous wax melon
Has impressed us all to a great degree,
But bigger still, was Miss Ford’s magnificent ash gourd
And, for this, the first prize is awarded to she.’’
Delighted cheers from the audience,
Little Ashley’s face all aglow.
Maxwellan can’t believe what’s happened.
The tears, they start to flow.

When he’s finished crying and wiped his tears,
He goes to congratulate his friend.
Though he tries to be polite, he can’t help but ask
How she did beat him, in the end.
‘’I read poetry to my plant every day.
It must have liked hearing my voice.
Its favourite poet, I found to be
None other than Dr. Seuss.’’

I write about you alot.
Shh.
Don't tell anyone.
I don't want them looking for my words.

There is a reason i don't where shorts.
I have to hide the words.
If people see the words,
I can't be a poet any more.

My poems are words.
Unspoken words.
Everything i wanted to say.
Everything i never said.

Don't ask to read them.
You won't understand.
The only person who can read them are me.
For they are my memories.

I am a poet.
I write things people don't understand.
Nobody reads my storys.
Because there are no words.

Just soal.
Just pain.
Just scars.
Just love.

I am a poet.
A silent screamer.
My words are powerless without sound.
I will scream with my life.

god says
you have the soul
of a tapeworm.  

the luck
you’re in
is your father
the kisser
of baseballs.

the sound
in my body
do you think
it’s gone?

I am a half-smirk grinner
an addict and a sinner

I am lonely and broken
a screamer yet soft spoken

I am dead serious
could be delirious

I am not one to eat food
on words I'd rather chew

I am a running joke
the fire and the smoke

I am the forgotten
lost and unwanted


I am the last one picked
I am twisted
And I am sick

im a jumper
im a thumper
im a bear
im a pear
im a hopper
im a stomper
im a eater
im a steamer
but i am not  a screamer
im not a cryer
nor a laugher
not a surgeon
not a garbage man
but i am me
and thats all that matters
me

The porch light barely illuminates the overflowing ashtray
Moon, abandoned home, smokestack, alleys: view
Orderly circles of leaking lunar spectrum serve as steady sight
Otherwise torn by my mouth like a hooked fish to the angler-night
The streets are full of holes like the stories of conspirators
Kitten of gender nondescript plays in the corner, jubilant
Clouds pass and pay no mind, don’t associate with our kind
I hope she doesn’t find me foolish when I interject
Approached by vendor of the thieving sort with stolen radio offered cheap
Promised to turn potential customers his way as I planned retreat
A character amongst graffiti and gritty blacktop, the type I always meet
Nobody waited for us as we signaled from the crosswalk
Back to the quarters, friend needs a ******
Try to concentrate and write despite the bang on the walls
Distraction from *** I’m not having; she’s a screamer
Dark brewed beer is a bitter taste for bedtime

Jay-Z sounds like he's underwater. And the showerhoses tilt shut and the bathroom door opens to reveal - well, what I thought was a sealing wound thankfully turned out to be headphone covers and my brother's obscured big toe. Trembling.

He walks as if he was the rapper himself - chest hunched, back lurching forward like that of a street cat who doesn't know he's made it. Shaky feet, wet hair, darkened eyes that hadn't been shut for days.

''For my father was black, and beautiful, and beautiful, therefore, black. There was a blackness to him that was beautiful. A blackness entirely clear and his own.'' -James Baldwin, Notes on a Native Son (paraphrased).

His legs if you roll up the pajama bottoms are filled with quilt patched mosquito bites and blacks and blues. Self-inflicted. Eyebag patches punched back into his face resurfacing in the hidden contours of his thigh. Trembling. Allow me to reintroduce myself. Trembling.

He is and he isn't. No native son of ours black but yellow covered, yellow but eyes tinged with red, and awash in shadows black and blue - he is beautiful - puffy eyed, brickfaced boombox carrying screamer of profanity and tongue tied silence all and still - he is black, and he is beautiful.

An underwater mixtape taking shape to be a broken record anthem.

I can’t help thinking
that almost every girl I meet
could possibly, potentially be,
yes, a screamer in the sack,
or better, a soul mate in the sack,
or even a confidant in a coffee shop, or anywhere.
And then they could jointly rule my kingdom
imperiously, like the Queen of Babylon,
or maybe Bathsheba, who was having a bath
when David espied her and then jumped her in his boudoir.
I suppose an exhibitionist needs a ******.
Gee. But it wasn't kosher for David, the King of Judea,
to then have murdered Bathsheba's husband, Uriah,
so he could afterwards marry her.
What? Yeah, this is all in that whodunnit,
the first tabloid, the Old Testament.
But look, I'm getting away from the path here.
What I'm talking about is girls that I innocently meet
without trying to get them in closer.
I don't spy on girls in the bath or the shower
and I don't have anyone murdered for *** or for power.
Or for anything! I'm a writer, see?
I simply imagine, inside my head,
that we all fall fabulously in love,
and blow our minds instead.

Mike T Minehan

I'm a spill out of cab doors
a spill on your bedsheets
smeared lipstick on shirt collars
the bandaid on bloodied knees
and dried mascara streamed tears.
I'm that sticky shot glass
the bathroom stall stumble
a slutty slipped tongue.
tonight I'm undone.

I'm the blank stare smoker
tad-whipped toker
the take her and poke her
slap her or choke her;
you ask my number and forget my name.

the loud laugher, the screamer.
yet I have nothing to say to you.
keep urging me not to be shy;
you'll never understand how my life
is a movie I sit back to watch.
you're only a red-shirt, only disposable,
only the used ******,
but *** is how I know I'm real.
I pretend to be drunker, dumber, easier
than I am
because I want to be allowed
to close my eyes, to scream, to enjoy this
******* moment.

a poet is a silent screamer
silent feeler, silent doer
thinking, tinking, toying brains
reveals life through an expulsion
of ink on paper
with a mind whose thoughts
trickle down like racing raindrops on a car window
a painter of words on a heart-canvas
dreamer of the unreachable
unrequitable
unforgotten.

in the song of robin and blackbird
Creator signs His Name
A name that can be seen and heard
by those who shun acclaim

in the work of scribe and artist
shines the inner being
in the music of drum or harpist
speaks the soul all-seeing

in the works o' nefarious schemer
in darkest destruction 'n death
in the silence that shouts like screamer
in absence of life-giving breath

walks the many-faced serpent schemer
for those with eyes to see
the signature of the anti-redeemer
antithesis of eternity

for every person stamps their name
in the deeds they do
igniting hellish fires 'n flame
or letting G-d shine through

so don't be flummoxed by this world
keep your eyes on your goal
for as cherry, almond, or walnut burled
your acts bespeak your soul

the child molestor gets captured in the psych ward



harry thumping was a simple guy who loved the quiet life, but there was an evil side

which made him grab kids and feel their *****’s or vaginas and tie them up to the

jungle jim, and each day the kids saw harry they all screamer hoping that harry

won’t grab them, but harry grabbed on child and tied him up and then he grabbed

another kid and said heh heh heh, and every time he went home, the voices said

your still like the kids matey, heh heh heh, which was just a voice, but it seemed

real for harry as the force was pushing harry down saying your still a young dude

your still a little young dude, i will keep treating you like this, till he stop grabbing children

in the park, you see you are a hooligan harry, you are a danger to our children, and harry’s dad

said, why are you a shy hooligan, harry, be like us, be a family person, don’t think moo cow and ships

on children’s legs, it seems weird, you can go to gaol for that, you need to understand we are looking after

you right, you can’t go around grabbing kids in parks, you could force a lot of good people to be *****

and you must lose that voice your still a young dude, because the kids are young dudes harry

you are an awful man and harry went out ******* with his father and grabbed a few children

at the park and this kid was devious and cunning and told the police and the police caught harry

and he had to spend the night in the lockup and harry asked the police how long will i be in here

and the police yelled out A LONG TIME, thinking that harry was a hardened criminal or something

and with harry’s phone call, he phoned his parents, and they were shocked, and said why would a son of mine

go around committing crimes like this, you see we love kids and i thought harry did too, and mr thumping gave

ron a call and said, i think my son harry is mental because he got caught for grabbing kids at the park, and

i want to pay you $400-000 to give my son the best help possible, i am sure my son is mental because we are

a law abiding family and ron went over to the police station and picked up harry and brought him over to the

HDU, where ron will talk to find out what his reason for his crime, and harry thumping said i have these evil

thoughts on sexually assaulting kids and ron asked why do you do this, do you hate kids, and harry said

no, i like kids, i just am playing a little game, where i slice their moo cows and rip their ships in half and

every time a kid passes me, he will run and say, ya can’t get me harry darry, i said, leave those old fogies on their own

aqnd come to my cage, where i will rip your moo cows and destroy your ships and i remember these boys who saw

me crawling through the drainpipes, but they did nothing to me there, but in my voices i can hear them teasing me

so i took revenge on kids at the park, and ron said do you realise you look like a phedaphile, and harry said

no, i didn’t then, but i do now, thanks for telling me, i am no phedaphile, i just wanted to get them kids back to what is being

said in my voices, ron asked as the lunches were being brought out, you do realise that the voices are not real, and

harry said no, but i do now, i think and harry joined big harry and tommy and patty roe and charlie chaplin for the big lunch

feast, and ron went to his computer to see what is wrong with harry thumping and then looked into risperidal which will slow his

urges down and it could also slow his body down too, but while he is after kids, we have to take our chances, and until the

medications kick in, we must put him in our isolation room, for tommy’s safety, but ron thought that was very extreme

seeing he likes talk therapy and medication, as it works much better, and after lunch, ron took harry thumping to the

isolation room to rest till the end of the day, it wasn’t easy, as harry was kicking and biting and scratching ron, like he

was a wild animal escaping from the zoo, and when they eventually took harry to the isolation room, he was given a ******

which put him to sleep for 5 hours, and then as soon as ron noticed he was up, ron brought his dinner in, and harry said, thanks to him

and after he ate dinner, he put the TV on in the isolation room, and watched the news, and when the news labelled him

a convicted pedaphile, he yelled for hours

GET ME OUT GET ME OUT GET ME OUT GET ME OUT GET ME OUT

GET ME OUT GET ME OUT GET ME OUT GET ME OUT GET ME OUT

I AM NOT A PEDAPHILE, I WAS MERELY PLAYING WITH THE KIDS

I AM NOT A PEDAPHILE

GET ME OUT GET ME OUT GET ME OUT GET ME OUT GET ME OUT

and ron came in and said, is there anything i could help you with, and harry said, the fucken world are saying i am a pedaphile

and i am a player, i play with kids, and ron said, yeah i realise you might’ve been playing but the kids didn’t want you to grab them

yiou touched these kids against their will, you were inappropriate and harry said, yeah maybe so, but i wasn’t meaning them no harm

and ron said, here is risperidal, this will slow down the urges you have, ok, and ron said remember that pedaphile label, is probably the press

and parents of the children, it’s not us, ok, so relax and we will come in and give you some supper and ron didn’t go at that point, he wanted

to take the supper into harry, because, the victims are always looking out for each other, and i don’t think harry is safe outside these walls

for the time being, and ron added that, it’s good he’s got his own TV, we might be able to get close to understanding what triggered him off

especially if he said he ain’t a pedaphile, and at supper time, ron took 8 sandwiches and a hot chocolate to harry, and he was watching

greys anatomy, and there was a pedaphile there as well, and harry said, i don’t mean to harm the kids, i was just playing, you see look

at this kid here, waiting for his mother to be finished her operation, now, if i gave kids like him happiness, it’lbe alright and ron said, no

it isn’t alright, it’s not appropriate you see, sure the kids will say yes, but they are really small and vulnerable and if i allowed that

i could be up on charges for allowing it and you will be in gaol for doing it and after the supper was finished, ron took it back to the kitchen

and clocked off and went to the pizza hut to buy a pizza and then went home to his couch, ate pizza and watched TV and then fell asleep

on the couch, thinking about what he could do for harry thumping