Their hatred sharper
Than the blade of my knife
Yet still they chose to ignore
The fact that they’re destroying me,
Situating me into oblivion.

Yet they expect forgiveness,
Whilst they reminisce
In the tragedy
They created for me.

I try to erase the events,
But blood is not lead
So I continue to scribe
Bold statements of pain,
Yet still they ignore.

They ignore
But do they adore
Seeing me shatter,
Breaking me into desolation
With no hope of revaluation,
No longer - can I be saved.

No need for a burial
Because I already weep
A watery grave.
But I ask,
Who is the weaker man?
Is it he who dies by his own hand,
Or they who abolish
The little hope that man had left.

Her hot breath bathes your bare chest in the warmth that nothing else can provide. One hand wrapped around the waist, legs intertwined, she sleeps, her gentle, steady heartbeat as infectious as any melody you've ever known. The only source of light is a flickering candle, casting dancing shadows upon the walls and ceiling. Discarded garments and drained bottles of wine litter the floor, the obvious aftermath of an evening quite certainly well spent.
The stage is set, and the actors are in position. The assembled crowd holds it's collective breath, both eager and fearful of how this tale is to end. As our two young lovers sleep deeply, the candle continues to fade, it's once exuberant and animated flame growing ever dimmer, until it fails in a sudden plume of smoke.
On cue, the comely lass springs to life, situating herself to straddle our poor lad. Her auburn hair falls to form a curtain around her suddenly nightmarish features. In one swift movement, she swings the dagger 'round and plunges it deep into his flailing torso. With sickening precision, she reaches in and forcefully removes his still beating heart. She makes her way to the door, the heartbeat fading to a gentle throb as she increases the distance between you, until it disappears into the cool night air.
The curtains fall. Applause. The audience departs, returning to their lives, unaffected by the passionate butchery they've just witnessed. The female lead goes on to enjoy the accolades and affection attended to shooting stars, as our unfortunate male is relegated to the role of bit player.
Oh, how I miss the days of dreamless slumber.

watching the sequencing is a regular thing
this pattern never fails to deliver its best score
they who follow the method will be profiting

many times one has seen this eventuating
they're slotting into the bay's ideal shore
watching the sequencing is a regular thing

utilizing a placements good calculating
is not for them an overly arduous chore
they who follow the method will be profiting

success coming with each prized offering
being educated about this niche's core
watching the sequencing is a regular thing

it appears to be in the model's situating
this their station known as precision's store
they who follow the method will be profiting

on working out a program's functioning
none received counts which would bore
watching the sequencing is a regular thing
they who follow the method will be profiting

I have a new style with an expectation
expecting to explore my new aspiration
aspiring to seek reward through exploration
exploring words with my brand new cultivation
cultivating a never seen creation
creating something with a new formulation
formulating a rhyme with a different situation
situating words in a fresh new formation
forming myself another publication

This is my brand new style. The rules are strict compared to a regular quantum loop, but still a lot of room for creativity and fun.

1You gotta lotta nerve to play it clean
You know you gotta play it real
It’s a long life and I’ve already seen
I don’t expect you to know how I feel
You’re insulting my smarts and now he’s gonna lose his spleen

You used to love being with me
Took me a lot of niches to fill you see
I turned away all other *******
To take care of all the hitches

2We’d been in love since we were seventeen
We’d shared class since we could dream
Sharing lunch in the canteen
Putting insects on your shoulders laughing when you’d scream
What went wrong and I had to start wondering where you’d been
You gotta lotta of nerve asking why
I wonder when was it a tie
I haven’t met the guy
Nor should I

3But you force me like I need to be a jealous guy
Like I still need to be your idea of a man
Forcing me till he needs to die
And then situating me hanging from ceiling fan
The last thought imagining you two sharing a whiskey in rye

I thought you’re used to loving me
But sometime I should have made it three
But it’s a marriage decree
That there should be no polygamy

4You gotta lotta nerve asking me
Why we won’t just go for a ménage-a-trois
Why couldn’t you just break up with me
Instead of waiting for me to get home and go woah
But you wanted an idea of me instead of just plain old me

Does he have abs and still love you *****
Or have a flat tummy and has to bend his knee
I don’t care if he loves you
Because he’s in trouble because it’s not a love that’s true

5You needed me
Found me funny and wanted a nuclear family
After all for just a kid we didn’t need to call his granny and granddaddy
But the dream is gone and probably leaving me
I needed us to be three

You’ve gotta lotta nerve stagnating me
Now not anymore I’ve found listless liberty
And so have you only you have got it free
And the divorce the idea of a married me

4We will never share the crimson sky
Understand the meaning of old age together
Spending dusk drinking tea
Understanding the weather
Instead of making it our small talk because it comes free

Don’t miss the idea of feeling young
When feeling old
Only when you’re with a person who has sacrificed to feel the pride of being unsung
That’s the beauty of not being bold

3You used love me when you were seventeen
Now I know the ways you found to talk to me
I was a **** and too bad now to me you were just a teen

2I want to beat that infidel
Who’ll end up just like me but instead he’ll ******

1So you gotta lotta nerve to reminisce times because I wished you would marry me so now I'll wait till I'm forty three

I knew from that first glance,
That you would mean something to me.

I didn’t know,
Much less expect,
To love deeply and rawly as I do,
But you always surprise me.

I surprise myself as well,
In the patience I have with you,
In the way that I am capable of this,
In how I could treasure something,
That without I would have no meaning.

You are everything to me.
Everything I want,
But so much more I never knew I needed.

I still don’t fully comprehend,
How one person could develop such intense emotion for another being,
How everything around you shifts,
But in the way like puzzle pieces,
Situating itself perfectly in place.

You manage to deal with me,
But wonder my calm demeanor towards you.
You are my tranquility,
Around you my anger, frustration, pain, and loathing,
Just pours out of my being,
Spilling what I could once never release.

You are the embodiment of perfection,
The model of magnificence
The sample of allure,
Yet you deny your paragon.

Above everything else,
The one I am the utmost grateful for,
You are mine.

Eat some hate and ***** out love,
Sleep like sickening droopy doomed roads,
Feel and gorge and shout out hope,
Wash and clean and brush your soul.

Thick like fat and soft as sponge,
Take that browser up your tongues,
Search for form and facts and flicks,
Eat some time and ***** out things.

Innately curved and clasped under locks,
Presently situating obtuse points,
Silver smokes and a street light farce,
Shivering veins snort doses of curse.

Light more light, and lots of light,
Thin loose layers of lost parodies,
A burden is a blessing, with youthful laughs,
With fat and glycerine things get stabbed.

Eat some love, ***** out fat!

the plants trust that rain will come next
and whatever comes next’s what it is
that they need
and the ants seem to hide just in time
from the rain;

suppose I fill a niche, situating myself
on the top step, front row and imbibing—
yellow sky of a fog rolling under the storm,
empty bottle for capturing lightning.

ego: as the misnomer of "focus"...
     baggage
without any clothes burdened
by it, burdened by
the "idea"
         of the purpose of
                              baggage...
people take holidays...
without necessitating
        the "thrills"
                          of "boredom"...
such an antiquity remnant
demanded for the purpose of
ramification the simply
plain, modern, mundane:
       qualm of per-ex,
                              i.e. existence...
        the inability to "think"
as twinned to the inability
to narrate...
                 too many plateaus
to solve a "complexity"
of suckling at the mere
               constance of replica...
            and death,
the moor...
              a grey thinkery...
    a tank-with-placebo-ballistics...
the involuntary
parasite of life...
     the third-party-occupant:
slothful lodger...
               third-limb:
   the concept of diacritical
marks, in syllable constructs,
within the dynamic of
situating
    a "concern" for
                          parentheses;
the diacritical
    arithmetic of the 'laut
    above the UM...
                             given...
it's hardly an AH... when it's
an a-yee cannibalism...
     since not an aye,
i or why to give a ****
as to: huh?!
                  then sure:
iron will hugh...
            which is not even
an 'ugh grunt...
               ******,
you give me clear syllables...
i talk pretty parrot to you...
otherwise...
have this grammar
debackle all you want...
      blah blah peepin' tom
also did: one year
out of liner for being bonkers
in...
                sure as ****
'e' shoved
a thumb up the windsor's ***!