always a nice little resolve at the end to make  the prior  words have more context and make up for the drivel

               1 egg here
another   in the garage  behind   your trophies

1 kid in the tub

the other  in the grave,
and the other missing its head.

forward thinker
progressive -
savior of a nation called peru. mosquito dusk    woman  of   glass-shrapnel

receipts?  on the
desk,
forward now.  I have work today at 8.
how are you?

"good"

park it  and fill it    with all your hate--  tie the knot an extra time  so it  looks good  when it

splats

Another tomato
             splats to the
floor,
but I'm getting paid.

1.

Minds break apart at midnight,
piece together in dreamless sleep.

Robert Lowell poaches pen-and-ink
drawings for Life Studies.
Sylvia Plath dons Ariel’s red dress,
but loses Ariadne’s thread.  

Lowell raises For the Union Dead,
mythic monument to his family’s best.
Pigeons decorate it with their ***** mess.
Plath pins a ******* to her chest —  
shockingly pink —
and stands beside the kitchen sink,

Stirring a *** of poet’s gruel.
Madness and death the golden rule
no artistry can break. Not even the careless
reader can take leave of these senses

Once they’re rendered on the page.
Confession doesn’t age well,
as Lowell knows oh so well,
 
unless it suggests more substantial fare,
say, a flannel bathrobe for him to wear
in a Boston psychiatric ward — if he dares.

There’s something wrong with his head.
Crown him Caligula; his lineage has fled.

“What does that have to do with me, Daddy?” Plath artfully whines.
“Fill the tulip jars with red water, not wine,” he replies.
“The bridegroom cometh. Turn off the oven.”
But it is too late. She has met her fate before it predeceases her.

Like a teacher’s pet, she bets her life on a recitation
of Daddy, a term of endearment,
a term of interment in a stark, loveless miscarriage,
a dark, masculine disparagement of her freedom. O Daddy dearest.

Lowell shoots up to salute the younger poet, guessing
she has given the year’s best reading by a girl in red dresses.

At this stage, what does it matter that his “mind’s not right”?
What can he do but give up his right to pray, as every insight
       slips away?

But no Our Father for Plath. For her, the Kingdom comes too late.
Colossal poetry cannot save; the poet raves and raves and raves
       into that dark night.
Turn off the oven, turn out the lights. Daddy, too, is not right.
 
2.

Blake fired his Proverbs of Hell
in the dull, damning kilns
of England’s Industrial Age.

A poet’s no sage, but Lowell earned
his wings when he doctored Blake’s phrase:
“I myself am hell.”

A stone angel directs his descent:

Fortune favors the bold.

Never discount the power of chance.

Affliction of the senses is a gift.

Invisible seeks invisible.

Darkness obscures our limits.

We carry darkness within us.

Anarchy breeds spirit.

Artistry breeds no merit.

Appropriate beauty, at all costs,
whether, man, beast or angel.

3.

Poetry births an artifact of words; we unearth them, and they adhere.
We bury them, and they fall flat — hollow sounds, futile splats,
       prehistoric grunts ground into the ground.

Bathed in lithium and alcohol, here bobs your calling, Robert:
Everything matters; nothing coheres.
Build a shell of a soul on this maxim, a notebook of negation.  
       Grind your axes.

Sanctuaries may crumble, gates may close. Press on. Press on.
Corkscrew your identity into the iambic line; rouse the reader to find
the misleading promise of Eternity in the sonnet, the sonnet,
       the endless sonnet.

For minds lost in madness, tree limbs dangle like kite tails in the wind. No one flies here anymore. Gather reddened kindling while ye may.

What exiles you from the ancients — Homer, Virgil and Horace —
springs from vision, not technique: You lack the requisite blindness.

Absence absents the soul. Here, now, forever, shimmers only presence,
only the present, only Presence: divine, human, animal, marmoreal.
       Skunks, sails, cars and pails. Sing on, O son of New England!

Day by day, failing all, fill your void with fiery
hieroglyphs of verse. Then call your duty done.
 
4.

Behold: You are not the favorite, after all, but Camus’ stranger,
trapped in the blinding sun, stumbling on the burning sand.

Only what dies in you endures.

“Is getting well ever an art,
or art a way to get well?”

The skunks scurry, scavenge and survive far too long for you to answer.

You lie down beside orange fishnets, facing the shore.
At midnight, you will dream of dreamless sleep.

oral transmission
Modulate - Cognate- Division
Cosmic - tuned in like Cognitive Transmission

This is my mission, to

Get up out the scene Live wild as a child
Dread my head, Hear cries like the Roar  I lionize
Deviant be me, othered for free
as the Nomos creates Signifier, Signified
somewhat like a homeless child stigmatized
caught outside our commercial enterprise

but

With enterprise, there enters lies,
Never earthbound my star ship seems to Actualize
Melodically.

So let me lyrically **** your path so you can shift past the cuts
Neva drinking the wine of wrath, made sour by sour patch cats blasted by vats OF GRAFFITI splats.

Culture slipping like gangsters simply sipping at the purple incision
instead we walk Holy like the cotton we missin

Tattoo my Secrets onto skin parchment ,
thats Ink advice ---:  People Lost in Duality, man thats just thinkin twice
Surrender and self-Sacrifice be the admission price
to see Kali singing blood mantras dancing through

Dreams of Ink darshan doorways
Tantric like Siva Approaches his consort for foreplay

My face is like a thundercloud, smiles formed outta cloud highs
Now my 3rd eye, washed in blood saw how Snakes stitch DNA
up and winding
and lemme tell you bro,
its some Nauesous stuff

Transcendent reality,
ego death till its fallacy,
recognize perfection
of life in the galaxy

So I toss out my ID, puff puff, its high ME
don't be Stuck like Ego grinding, Just saving souls don’t mind we,
go Indigo like Love in the margins, Golden souls attempting to live in holy gardens, ==========

We forget though

Neither death or immortality existed in the time before time,  of day or night no sign

There was Darkness hidden by Darkness , all was water but got started quick, by the sharpness of a god spark

kick crash hit, life spit out covered in emptiness

This was it, started from the bottom, rise in the power of heat,
dance tap ta dis beat Aware tapas generates so much heat Indiscreet
in abyss

But then desire became the fire, middle ground never higher than the smoke trails of the world's creation,
Spittin om proir flash forward funeral flames tamed by Tandava siva purifier

So this poet seeks in the heart of wisdom found in the bond of existence to non-existence
Knowledge that  I’m a livewire with a high resistance
I Complete my **** Through high persistence,

Eventually though,
the Fog rolls in again , agnosia forget the Cosmic condition
till then We soulfeed lyrics in-between kissing.

all poems write themselves, following plans that are drawn only
as the poem goes along, neither leading or following, but
carrying the writer along as first violin, a VIP passenger,
the first viewer, a consultant but not a conductor

a poem is written based on what has happened
a poem is written based on what was hoped to happen
a poem was written based on what could never happen
but is so well imagined that it is more real than if it happened

I willingly tell you I will not tell you which is what, for there is no difference between them for the writer, the first passenger,
though undeniably fully aware of the quality of the ware
that is proffered, plottered or just perchanced

perhaps you are thinking, but of course,
this is the way,
the way of all of us,
the way it has and will be and no
disclaimer needed for no believable claims are made

perhaps
for the weave is oft tight, tight as near-truth, and so well imagined, it wraps the first passenger in a cloak of skin
that actually feels, though cloaks cannot feel,
but belief is easily eased

there are no lines or lies in my writings
there are no definitions and
perception is only your truth


Therefore,
my poems are splats and drips.
you make them into paintings that hang
in your own private museum
but authenticated by me as
first viewer,

3/13/18
1:09am

A COLOURFUL FRUIT BLAST        
From the 1st diary entry of Stewy Lemmon's childhood adventures.            
            
Hi, my name is Stewy Lemmon and I’m your normal, everyday, friendly, country boy, who lives about 2 hours away from the big city lights. My family’s home is nestled amongst the trees on a hill in a little country village called, 'Shimmerleedimmerlee'.

It's located just a little north west from the famous town of Bearfeet Ridge. Famous of course, because of the mysterious and rarely seen yellow tailed bear family, that is said to inhabit the nearby treed mountain range. The town's people have even given the rarely seen bear family sightings, a nickname called, 'Bearfeet Yellow Tales'.            
              
My family is made up of one much younger brother, named Lemmy; two much older, identical, twin sisters named, Emma and Jemma, and my proud parents, Archie and Flo.            
              
On Christmas day this year, I received a pet mouse as one of my presents. I quickly named him Smoochy, after he suddenly jumped up and kissed me on the cheek, then fell into my top left-hand side pocket. From that moment on, I knew that Smoochy and I, would have such fun times and great adventures together.            
              
This Christmas afternoon was especially hot, so my Mum Flo cut up some healthy and yummy assorted fruit for the family, as a snack and placed it on the table, which was placed in between, the two large trees in the backyard.

I especially love bananas, apples, oranges, grapes and lots of watermelon mixed together in my bowl. I named this creation 'A colourful fruit-blast'. It’s so much fun to eat, although, my little brother Lemmy only likes bananas in his bowl, with a dash of sweet honey.            
              
My two much older identical twin sisters named, Emma and Jemma, love to eat only green celery sticks and plain yogurt on hot days. Smoochy also ate some of my delicious, colourful fruit-blast and even drank a little of my icy, strawberry flavoured, thick shake, through his very own, home-made straw.

My Dad Archie, is very handy at making things out of wood, metal and even plastic and loves to paint unusual designs on whatever he makes. Dad does all of his, building and painting in his unusually built and outrageously painted backyard, outback shed.            
              
So, after he had some of Mum's afternoon fruit snack, Dad built a mouse house, for my grouse, new pet, mouse called, Smoochy. Dad even hand painted it with such colourful flair, from using his artistic nous. But, when I placed Smoochy, into his newly painted, mouse house, the paint wasn't dry enough, and he got yellow paint all over his, oh-so-cute tail.  
  
After my Dad Archie, had finished the grouse, new pet, mouse house, he thought, what could he make for me, as a New Year’s Eve surprise present. He quickly thought of a great idea and headed off to his, unusually built and outrageously painted, outback, backyard shed.            
              
Dad was busy for days, coming and going from his backyard shed and snoring so loudly, while taking short naps on our backyard hammock.            
      
Also, Dad kept taking pieces of Mum's colourful fruit snack, but only very small amounts at a time, from her ever so clean kitchen. Then, sneaking it all back into his, very hard to say shed. You know, the one in the backyard.  
  
My Dad had finally finished building my surprise present, just in time for New Year’s Eve. Then, because we were hosting a party at our house, at about 11.50 pm, my entire family, neighbours, friends, Smoochy and I were all waiting outside, in the backyard for the clock to strike 12.00 midnight.
  
With only 10 minutes to go my Dad, rushed off to his, you know where. Yes that's right, his unusually built and outrageously painted, outback, backyard shed and brought out my surprise. You will never guess what it was, for it was radically recycled, rather refined, remarkably robust and really red. Have you guessed correctly? Anyone? No? Okay, I will tell you what it was. It was my very own really red, reusable, retro rocket.            
              
When I saw the rocket that my dad had built for me, I was over the moon with happiness and I had a smile on my dial, that felt like it was almost as long as about a mile.            
    
All of a sudden, all of my family members, neighbours, friends and I started screaming out 10,9,8,7,6,5,4,3,2,1. We all shouted out together, at the top of our voices HAPPY NEW YEAR. Then my Dad helped me light my, really red, reusable, retro rocket surprise and we both stood back, to see it take off and fly into the sky. My Dad told me, it was especially built to create, a fireworks display in the night sky and then return back to us. All so we could reuse it again, for next year.
  
All of a sudden, it took off so high into the night sky, I thought my new, radically recycled, rather refined, remarkably robust, really red, reusable, retro rocket surprise, was going to the moon and may never come back down to earth.            
              
But then we heard a loud bang, the top of my rocket separated from the main body of the rocket and exploded into bright colours all over the night sky.            
              
After a while though, my entire family, our neighbours and our friends, felt things dropping onto their clean party attire. People had red blobs on their backs; yellow splats on their shirts and even some on their skirts; small orange flecks on their faces and a few people had small black bits, dropping into their top, left-hand side pockets.            
    
"It's my colourful fruit snack, coming down from the night sky", yelled Mum. So she went searching through the crowd for my Dad. When she found him, he was chuckling with laughter.

He told us all, ‘That he had packed the radically recycled, rather refined, remarkably robust, really red, reusable, retro rocket, full of Stewy's favorite fruit. Also, because fruity, firework explosives would really make the sky, so much more colourful to the eye, and ever so tasty in our mouths’.
              
My Dad wanted to make as many colours as he could for the fireworks display. He used some of Mum's colourful fruit, which included, apples, bananas, watermelons, grapes and oranges.            
              
Even Smoochy was getting hit by the furiously flying, fast falling, fantastically funny, fabulous family fruit by Flo, through the small gaps, in his newly built, freshly painted, grouse, pet mouse, house. It was the best surprise I have ever seen, come out of that unusually built and outrageously painted, backyard, outback shed.            
              
Oh, what a fun and tasty New Year's Eve party we all had, on that, oh, so wonderful and colourful fruit blast of a night, in my little country village of 'Shimmerleedimmerlee'.

My sister never had any boyfriends
which was quite surprising really you know
because she had a nice pair of knockers
and a very cute little **** on her
but never once a gentleman caller
came knock knock knock on her friendless portal.

So I asked her what was the ******* score
that no butch lads wanted to part her bush
and whyfore was she not barking for it
in a vague manner of ******* speaking
and she told me to glue my keen peepers
on her keyhole the next night to find out.

Thus I knelt down before her bedroom door
my eye glued to the appropriate hole
with a full view of her "sleepezee" bed
on which she casually lay spread out
legs opened like a major T-junction
and then her friend appeared to my rapt joy.

I gasped in wonder as her lesby love
straddled my **** sis and gave her tongue
a good chance to lick out her womb entrance
causing me to indulge in self-abuse
as their eager mutual *******
gave way to some red hot ***** action.

(I hope they didn't hear the noisy splats
as I squirted my lovejuice onto the doorpost)
Good taste, eh?

Oh joy and happiness!
How you fill my world with wonders.
Oh, how I fly with freedom under me.
Oh, how this world seems to support every move i make.

Oh joy and happiness!
How my c̶̤̊̀̈́̈̈́͑̌̓̀̿̔̓͠up fills with yoṵ̴̧̻͔̪̳̮̼̹̲̆̾͂͆̇̇̾̾̈̌͘r juice,
but just under all the liquid-
o̷͈͚̲̯͖̱̜͇̫͎̻̤̍̊̊͗̇̎̏̄̎͜͝h joy and happiness
how your colorful thickness ḣ̶̦̳͓̮͔̕i̶̢̨̬̰͉͙̗̫̩̼̩̗̬̍̽̆̃̏d̴̞̍͐̀̇͜͝͝es
multiple r̸͉͆͘ò̸̥̤̞̣͜t̴̜̞̹̖͚̰̥̑́̎̎ͅt̷̟͙̹͋́̔͋̒͆̒̐̃́̕e̴̲͇̱̲̲̳͖͉̓͌̃̈̑͂̄̑͒̾͜͝n­̶͇͂̈́̄͒ *****
P̴̢̨̰̥͈͕̱̪̰͊̈́̉͗͐͊̆̂͐̄̈́̈͘͝ǫ̸̢͉̘̰̯͉̘̮͈̝̙̅͒̓̀͑̃ḯ̴̧͓̥̱̰͔̖͚̜͈͎­̦̇͋̑̈̊̑͂̇͗͗̕͘͜͠ͅs̷̛͔͉̤͕͖͙͇̟̭͈͛̓̓̊͑̎̆͐̌ͅọ̵̡̨̻͕͚̖͎̦̼̝͎̲̤̘͛͝ņ̸͍̺̤͓̙̙­̘̫͈̄ͅe̵̢̧͍̖̜̮̘̖̮̖͖̼̼̦̔̅͗̓͊d̴̨̨̡̛̛̜͇̦̱͇͔̘̫̭͉̳̯̿̔̒̾̇̇̓̀̀̒̋ ̴̢͇̺̘͍͚͉̦̣͖̻̦͔̲͊̈́̆́̓̈́ḇ̶̭̟̣̠͕͍̝̆̊̌̓͛́̆̈́̊̈́̋̅̕͜͝ͅǫ̶̧̬̼͉̗̘̞̗̺͚̦͇͙­͌͛́̐͊̃̀̊̂͊̓́͝͝͠ͅb̸͍͕͚̥̺̰̦͒͜ͅă̸̬͚̗̩̯̩̻̫͙̬̦͚̼̲͆͗̀̈̀͌̉̎̽̄̎͘͝
poisone­d boba
poisoned bob
poisoned bo
poisoned b
poisoned
poisone
poison
poiso
pois
poi
po
p
.
.
.
b̷̡̢̺̥͚̲͍͚̏̄́­̈́́͆̈́̽̊͛̚ͅo̸̞̠̞̊͛̒̔͒̚ḅ̶̣̘̹̊̌͛͝a̴̡̛̼̥͔̼̠̓͌̓̎̎̕͠ ̵̛̩̮̺̫̜̟͓̫̗͈̰͇͒͌̌̑̋͠͠ͅţ̷͎̟͕̰̲͍̥̤̲̖̮̊͋͗͗̋̾̓̔̆͑̉̓ę̷̦̦̹͍̐͂̅̉̉́̈̃͛̓͌̿­a̴͇̹̭̯̮͙̱͋̿̏͜ ̷̨̢͙͚̜͖̻̬̲̹̤̳̻̔͊͂̈̀̐͌͒̒́͝k̶̻̳̀͌̓̓̈́͒͆̅̏͝͝͝i̷̯̜͒l̴̪̯̳͊͌̌̉̄͗́̈́̌̌̅̃­̓l̵̢̼̱̠͖̞̪̺̣̞̥̜͑̍̽̌͝͝ͅs̶͈̼̫̤̝̤̥͍͇̻̣͖̮̫̲͒̾͆̓́̀̈́̇̅̚͝͝ ̸̥̖̘̱̺͙̫͔̪̑̄̀͋͜ͅw̸͇̩̑̈́͐͒̈̐̈̈́̆̏̕ị̸̢̛̗̫̣͙̅̈̾̃̒̉̕t̵̡̪̪̪̱̦̭̩̬̮͑̉̈́̌­͒̔͛͊̒́͘ḩ̵̡̛͈͖̫̈́̈̐͗̓̊̐̔̿ ̸̢̨̗̫̪͙̖̩̠͎̝̘̂͋̌p̶̡̛̫̰̖̺̞̱̥̬̰͗̊̿̍̽̇̓o̴̡͖̫̘͕̲̳͔̗̫̔͌̑̾̿̀̏͗̈̑͐̕ȉ̷̖͉̮­̱̮̭͂̾̐̌̂̀̀͜s̵̛͍͔̍̃̾o̷̧̻̤̬̣̣̗͖̬̒̀͌̏͆͒́͗̋͘͜͝͝n̴͙̖͉̻͖̮͉̝͔̐̇͋͌̆͒͒̍̀͗͒­͐̚s̵̢̨̛̠̹̖̣̱̻̭̄̀̍͒̉͗̒̋͑̚̚ͅ ̴͈͎̰̖̗͌̔̄̃́͐̎s̴̨̳̲̣͉̳̥̱̙̀̂̌̋̅͑͂̏̄͑͘ͅt̸͉͊̀͌́͑͐̿͆͝r̵͉͒̃̓̚̕͘͠e̸̛̠̗̗̞­͇͎̫̙̻̮̩̦̞̯̓̄͋́̋̓̎͝å̴̟͚͎͙͊̀̆̊͝k̴̦̘̥̪̟̭̤͍̙̋͗̆ͅs̴̜͉̯͂͒ ̴̫͋̽̋́̓̈́̅̔͛̅̓̎ơ̷̲̐̅̓̀͆͐͂͋̊̓̓̽f̷̨̫͉̹̞̈͌̉̉̈́͛̎̍͛̒͝ ̷̢̦͚̯͍͇͙̩͎̻̖̳͖͑͛̽̆͂̀̉̇̉̅̑̍̚͝b̵̡͚̺̥̭̙̬͎̜̳̱̤̭̩̏̿̐̿͛̏͂̚͘͘l̴̠̹͓̻̪̼͎̪̱­̼̓͒̈͛͐̀͆̀̃ͅͅo̸̡̡̥̣̥̖̻͇̘͕͒́͌̒̊̚ó̴̩͚͈̮̺̌̒̈͌̉̀̄͆́̓̀͠d̴̛̩̖͕͗̍̉̓ ̴̨̲͖͖̩͉͔̠̖̲̥͍̀̈́̓͌̃́͛̿̏͝t̴̨̪͉͖̣͖͓͖̦̞̳̊͆̇̀̏h̷̛̖͇̞̰͚̜͙̘͈̄̀̀̓͐͊̍̏͗̓a­̵̼̝̣͊̓̑͘t̷͕̟̑̅̌̔͋̈̆͒͊́͆͋͘͝ ̷̨̨̛̬͖̩͓͚͔̬̥̯̰̯̤̭͒̔̏̇̇̓͊̐b̷̨̨͖̳͚̼̑̋̂͜͠ȓ̵͖̺̮̘͕̜̈́̾̈̽͑̿̂̅̈́͌͒̅͛͠ǐ̷͇­͇͕̬̟͉͔̺̫͔̅͊̌̈́͗̉̾̀͆̇̄͊͘ͅͅn̷̝̾̑͗̆͜g̸̛͈̖̖̺͖͈̙̘̋̀̓͒̈́͗̄͂͘͝͠ ̷̨̧̡͖͖̺̬͇̙͓̠̋̏́̅̾̆̓̈́̇̕͘͠o̵͈̙̼͑ņ̷̘̈́͝͝l̵̮̐͑̈̾͝y̷͎͇̞̥̓̓̆̎̏͂̆͛̒̒̎ ̶̼̖͕̘̱̭̣̙̄d̷̢̢͙͇̋͐̍e̴̮̘̼͔͋́͛̂̔͆̓̄̐̾͆̆̈́͝a̷̛͓͕̼̬̤̺̖̓̈͌̎͐̍́͑̑̍t̷̡͔̳­̯͙̯͇̭̖̯̭͆̐̀̑͛̑̀͐̓̚͝h̵̛̰̭͕̖̭̼͕̝̭̔̐̕ͅ ̸͕͚̫͗t̷̛̯̝̲̙̥̠̘̮̄̈͑̀͆̉̔̄͂̈́͘͜ǒ̷̡̡̺̤̼̖͙̻̮̖́̔̅͂͊͋ ̷̛̮̣͓͍̦̱̤̗̬̹͍̯̘͉̓̅͗̂̊͛̌̄͑̐̄͒̈͐t̴̛̼͇̟̟͓̲̯̬̲͚͇̹̤̾̏̍̈͆̓̈́̐̎͜͜͝ḩ̴̡̻͚͎­̤̘̟̣̝̰̣̜̽̂̾̏̽̃͐̎͋̀̀̕͝o̶̢̰̺̠̟̱̬͚̺̍̅͌͌̿͒͆̆͘ś̸̡̥̲̬͖̥̬̤̕ē̶̺̙͈̘͇͇̳̱̻͓̹­͜ ̸̛̮̣̦̜̙͔͉͇͈͕̦̝̻̒̉̒̃̈́̓́̀w̷̡̬͍͇̜̭͉͇̱̮̬͔̽͒̇͌̇̀̄͗̇̎͘͠͝h̴͚̮͚̱̜̪͉̿̅̍̈́­͆̀̽̌̚͝͝o̵̧̲͙̍̇ ̴͈̻̪͓̪̫̝͠ͅc̵̫̾o̶̞͎͈̼͇̠͕̩̤̰͕̠̫͐͂̅̇̈̇̓̈́̌̀̍̍n̷̗͇̟͙̖̅͝s̵̨̨̧͉͇̈́̔͂̆͜u­̷̹͚̩̫͛̈́͌̌͗͠m̷̢̢̺͙̫̖̱͕͖͕̟̤͉̒́̀͂̈̕ȩ̷̭͉̤̋̆̍͠,̸̰͊̆́̆̊̏̍̍̒̆̄̓̕͠ ̸̢̡̜̪͔̭͓͖͓̏͑͂̀͂̌́̒̍a̸̛̼̮̫͉̻͓̦͓̘͛̈́̓̏̊͐͊̌̈̒̊͝͝l̸͉͇̼͉̫̜̘̞̦̟͈̰̱̙̾̊̔̐­̑̑̈́̅̇͐͘͜͝l̴̛̲̙͙̱͚̠̫̞̯͇̼̥̱̭̔̈́̌́͂̽ ̶̬̘̰͇̲͈̪͍̙͑̈́̒̃͗̂̊͑̈́̒̚͠t̴̡̛̤̺͕͓͚h̶̢̛̜͖͖͙̺̤̤̹̝̦͓͇͈̎̑̅̊͑̄̾͒͝ȩ̵̛̤͈̣­̮̥͙̖̜̹̙̤̈́͗̊͑̆̌̀̌̾͛̑ ̵͔̻̫̲̩̯̺̉͗́̆̈̿̾̏ļ̷̢̜̦͙̙̀̎̂͋͐̚̕͝i̴̛̱̽͐̒͊̆̆̍̈́̑̐q̵̧͖͍̥̟͍͓̠̜̻̗̞͆́́̈́­͝͝ͅū̴̩̦̼̦͉͍̺͎͐̈́̇͘͜i̶̛̻̱̭̼̥͑̓̂̍̿̋̕d̵͔͔̤͍̳͓̖̟̦͔̝̻͝ͅ ̵̛̻͈̖̺̠̋́̈́͑̍̀̆͝i̷̫͎̲̬̦̘̠͙̰̘̙͒̃ͅͅș̵̛͎͍͍̼̲͚̅͑̽̉͌̑́́̒̀ ̷̨̱̟̩͈̣̦̹̗̘͙̫̬͈́́̓͊̆́͐͒͘͜͝f̸̧̢̢̯̦͈̺͍̪̩̬̏̒̈́ͅo̴̦͕̓̀̀̔r̴̛͚̬͓̮̭̈́̊̔͆­̓̾̄̚ ̵̢̼͍͎̪̦̘̐̓͆͑͒̿͌͂̃̑̒̋̆̅h̸̢̧̛͈̘̟͇̣̪̰̫̙̬̑̓̃̿̏͊̽́͊̾͒͘͝i̶̛̹̪̬̾̽̑̀̇̑́͘d­̶̡̟̙͚̮̳͉͚̲͕́̊́̚͝͝i̸̡͕͍̪͆̈́ͅn̷̛͙͛̉͌̈̈́̂͂͘͠ġ̶̩͇̜̺̮͔̗̼̰̱͓̘̪̐̉͐̔͗̎̿͘͝­ͅͅ ̶̧̡̩̭̮̭͚͌̋͂̑̄͝t̶̻̞͉͖̟̦̙͙̳̝͓̳͇͈̖͆͌̊̎̿̾̈̕h̷̡̧̲̗̳͔̞̠̯̤̝̞͖̲̄̃̐͊́̇̂̍̐̑­̏͊e̸̢̲̖͔̲͙̭̖̬͈̼͇̼͆̒ͅ ̷̗͋͂̐ẗ̸̲̝̗̻͕͔̹͙̻́͌͋͌͆̈́̏̾̑̌̾̚r̵̡̧̫̟̼̥͔̮̳̪͔̙̫͍̂̑̍́̃̒̓͝͠u̴̜͓͙̮̪̰̠͖̘­̤̗͊̈́͝ͅṱ̷͎̞͖̠͉̟̖̳̣͚̭̩̚h̷̨̩͎̠̣̞͇̜̰̳͈͚̩̤͋͒̈̈͊̽͋̉̊̕͘͜͠͝͝͠ ̵̬͚͇̉́͂̾͌̎͒̽̐͜t̶̨̤̝̥̘̲̖͉͇̦͕̽̅́̒̀̈́͘͝h̴̭͎̙͇̆a̸̧̺͎̰͈͉͓̝͍̰̖͕̜̩̤͆̀͊̉́­͊̍̀̐̇̿̃͘t̷̡̛͉͎͖͈̠̉̒̍̆͂̋͑̿̓̒͘͝ ̶͙̠͉̠̺̯͚̪͎͈̯̫̙̀̈͋͂͗͛̐̇̀͘ͅi̵̢̹͖͈̓̎̈̈̾̽̓͐̀̑̄͛̈́́͘ ̵̘͔͖̰͉͈̺̒h̷̖̤̪̳̖̥̫̤͍̟̗̼͌͒͜ͅͅa̸̧̧̞͕͙̰̮͓͙̗͓̹̺̝͐́́͜v̵̞͚̰̣͐̌͘̚ͅè̸̛̫̩̹­̖͒̈́̃͑ ̸̡̡̢̞̱͈͚͎̯̏͑̔̍̍͐̿͊̿͌͒͝͝ͅp̵̨̛̜̮̱̠̻̩̪̮͚̹̣̞̠̼͂̆͑̔̀͑̍̀̑̀́͂́͘ò̶͇̬̂i̸̗̋­̆͒́̃̔̆̒̿̉͝s̵̟̹̀̈́̑͒̃̐̀͋̌̾͑̚ͅo̶̡̗̰̼̙͇͌͐͗̊̂̀͑̋̒͌̃̔̀̋̚͜n̵̡͔͑̇̀̓̾͒̽̈́­̽̐͝ͅẻ̷̟͈̣͙͔̬̹̄̀̑̓̇̾͝d̷̟̼̹̞̣͚͌̊̇͆̈́̏́͋̓̔̽̎̈́̕͠ ̴̨͍̱̺͍͙̤͈̼̐͜ͅt̴̙̲͕̓̉̀̆̿́̎̄̚͝h̵̡̡͇͈̭͖̤͈̙̣̳̼͎͈̎̂̔̓͆͗̀̆̋̿͒̕͠ě̷͉̤̗̗͇̫­̮̹̝͔̱̰̝̙̒ ̶̨̠̬͓̠̪̖̦́̏̽͑d̵̮̱̾̃̽̍̽̌r̵̗̈ǐ̶̛͈̭̗̥́̂̓͗̔͐̑͛͘͝ͅņ̵̢̳̭̖̈́̌̈͗͂͛́̑͜k̵̘̘­̈́̽̇̅̓̏̾͛̓͒͝ ̶͔̗̈́̿̀͗̀w̶̙͍͚͓̤̭̝̞͍̮̝͍͙͛̔͒̆̓̈̈̓̍̀͘͘̚͝͝ͅa̴̢̛̛͗͑̈̾̿̽͗̆̔̿̚î̸̡̛̓̆̿͋͒­̏̾t̸̡͔̭̦̘̅͂͌̽́̓̿̍̉̇̅̃͘̕ȋ̸̙͂̐̋́̎̌͊͐͌͊͝n̵̛͖͖̍̍͂̑̃́͊͘͠g̶̝̹̻̠̝͉̘̩͉̮̙̗­͆͜ ̸̡̨̡̨̮̞̦̞̳̗̖͈͎͎̍͌̈́͋͆͂͒ͅf̸̡̛̟͎̞͎͙̮̰̓̅͆͗̊̾̂̓̈́͒̐̂͛͝o̸̧̥̘̜̪̪̯̅̌r̴̨͔­̝̠͇̖̘̪͍̲͔̙̈́͊̔ͅ ̷̢͔̬̺̭̌̐͒͑ͅt̸̨̢̺͉̟̖̪̮̺̂ͅḩ̴̧̢̗̲̻̺̭͍̭͊̈́́̍̊̿̃͌͋o̴̝̭̗̔̎͌̑̈́̀͆̐̕͝ş̵̧̪­͚̮̟̩̟̔͆̓̑̈́͐͐̕e̸̢̮̤͍̮̙͍̹̘̹̽͐̓́̂̓͆̃̈͗͊̂͝͝ͅ ̸̢̝̻̖͇͕͈̜͓̌̓̎̍̂̄̏̄͝͠f̷̢̧̞͉̬̩̯͔̦̥̱̥͇͊͐̍̄͂̾̒̈́̒̔̋̿̈̽͛o̷̺͑̈̄̂̆̊̉̄̓̄̋­̃͘͠o̷̧̧̹̩̲͚͙̼̜̜̿͠l̶̘͈͎̯̫̋̌̏̄̏̇̽̅̒̃̈́͜ͅi̵̡͎̺̹͇͗̽̂͊͜ş̵̮̩̩͙͚̣͈͇̤̞͔͓͐­͑̂̌̄͐̓͌͌̊̓̂̚͘͜ȟ̷̯̗͈̅̆̎͑̌̒͌͑̇̉͘̚ ̷̧͕̠̣̮̠͇̮̯͋̉̐͐̈́̈́͘ḙ̷̭̙̒̈́̂̐̚ṉ̷̩̣̾̀͂͗̊̓̑́͛̌̚̚͠ỏ̴̘͎̫͚͊̀̎̒͆̌̚̚͝u̸̧̞­͉̹̯͎̻̬͐͋̎̚͝͝ͅͅg̴̢̛͇̭̮̺̖͉̖͎̭͌̎̐̊͗͒͆̾̍͂̈ḩ̴̡͓̭̯̲̯̝̭͇͈͔̮̖̄͐̅̇̀̽͂͜͠͝ ̸̨̨͍͉̥͇̝̮̦͔̮̭͖̩̒̃̀̍̉̏̀̚͘̕͝t̵̬͇̰͆̀̈́͊̽͝͠o̸͓͈̬̭̫͑̅̔̌̈́̉̔̈́͛̈͝ ̸̡̮̱͈̤̮͈̬̰̟̹̺͋̉ͅṯ̸̨̨̨̭̩̠͙̳́̀̈́́̋̓̌̚͜͠ͅa̴̧̗̠̲̰͙̦̞͈̪̟͆͗̂̌̌̍̋̔̃̕͘͠k̷­̡̨̙̜͖̲͙͈̝̘̯̅͌͂͗̍̋͌͋̿̋͐̐̓̿̆ę̴͕͌̃̇ ̷̨̢̧͔̪̩̹̘̩̈́̔̋̏͐̐͛͐̇̈̈́̚̚a̵̰̿̈́̍͂̿̏̀̑̌̂̚̕ ̷̻͓̟̱̟͙͓͈̱͈̞̌̎̂͛ͅş̵̛̩̠̜͈̻̭̰̲̾̀͗͋̑͐̑̔̒̈͐͊͘ǐ̶̭͉̜̿͐p̷̲̰̳̀̃͗̋̓̓̍̀̿̕̕͝­,̴̢̡̻͚̩̥̣̋͆͋͂͂͗̆͘͜͝ ̵̢͈͙̰̜̣̼̾̊͒̓̈́̾̄͆͆͝l̸̨̠̝̯̱̼͉̠̩͇͓̱̖͈̇̃͌́͜ĕ̶̲̦̦̖͗̈̽̄͛͊͐͘͝t̶̠̱̳͈̳̱̰͇­̱͙͔̤͔̫͒̀̈́͊̈́̽̋̚ͅ ̶̭̃͂̈̓͊͘͜ẗ̴̯̮̼̟̫́̈́̅̉͜h̸̪̫͓̥̳̞̫̜̊̃͒̍͜ͅë̵̘̗̔̄̂̀̽̅̽̓̈́͘͝͠͝m̶̨̡̛͚͔̩̼­̱̆͌͐͛̿͒̑̊̿̾͋ͅ ̸̢̫͔͊͗̒̔̊͛̉͗̋͒͝͝d̵̹͍͓͎̟̥̽́̔̿̒̆͝i̷̥̣͕̘̱͑ẻ̶̢̛̻̼̣̹̙̤͚̩̝͛͌͆́̑́̆͗̈́͜ͅl­̸̨̠̝̯̱̼͉̠̩͇͓̱̖͈̇̃͌́͜ĕ̶̲̦̦̖͗̈̽̄͛͊͐͘͝t̶̠̱̳͈̳̱̰͇̱͙͔̤͔̫͒̀̈́͊̈́̽̋̚ͅ ̶̭̃͂̈̓͊͘͜ẗ̴̯̮̼̟̫́̈́̅̉͜h̸̪̫͓̥̳̞̫̜̊̃͒̍͜ͅë̵̘̗̔̄̂̀̽̅̽̓̈́͘͝͠͝m̶̨̡̛͚͔̩̼­̱̆͌͐͛̿͒̑̊̿̾͋ͅ ̸̢̫͔͊͗̒̔̊͛̉͗̋͒͝͝d̵̹͍͓͎̟̥̽́̔̿̒̆͝i̷̥̣͕̘̱͑ẻ̶̢̛̻̼̣̹̙̤͚̩̝͛͌͆́̑́̆͗̈́͜ͅl­̸̨̠̝̯̱̼͉̠̩͇͓̱̖͈̇̃͌́͜ĕ̶̲̦̦̖͗̈̽̄͛͊͐͘͝t̶̠̱̳͈̳̱̰͇̱͙͔̤͔̫͒̀̈́͊̈́̽̋̚ͅ ̶̭̃͂̈̓͊͘͜ẗ̴̯̮̼̟̫́̈́̅̉͜h̸̪̫͓̥̳̞̫̜̊̃͒̍͜ͅë̵̘̗̔̄̂̀̽̅̽̓̈́͘͝͠͝m̶̨̡̛͚͔̩̼­̱̆͌͐͛̿͒̑̊̿̾͋ͅ ̸̢̫͔͊͗̒̔̊͛̉͗̋͒͝͝d̵̹͍͓͎̟̥̽́̔̿̒̆͝i̷̥̣͕̘̱͑ẻ̶̢̛̻̼̣̹̙̤͚̩̝͛͌͆́̑́̆͗̈́͜ͅl­̸̨̠̝̯̱̼͉̠̩͇͓̱̖͈̇̃͌́͜ĕ̶̲̦̦̖͗̈̽̄͛͊͐͘͝t̶̠̱̳͈̳̱̰͇̱͙͔̤͔̫͒̀̈́͊̈́̽̋̚ͅ ̶̭̃͂̈̓͊͘͜ẗ̴̯̮̼̟̫́̈́̅̉͜h̸̪̫͓̥̳̞̫̜̊̃͒̍͜ͅë̵̘̗̔̄̂̀̽̅̽̓̈́͘͝͠͝m̶̨̡̛͚͔̩̼­̱̆͌͐͛̿͒̑̊̿̾͋ͅ ̸̢̫͔͊͗̒̔̊͛̉͗̋͒͝͝d̵̹͍͓͎̟̥̽́̔̿̒̆͝i̷̥̣͕̘̱͑ẻ̶̢̛̻̼̣̹̙̤͚̩̝͛͌͆́̑́̆͗̈́͜ͅl­̸̨̠̝̯̱̼͉̠̩͇͓̱̖͈̇̃͌́͜ĕ̶̲̦̦̖͗̈̽̄͛͊͐͘͝t̶̠̱̳͈̳̱̰͇̱͙͔̤͔̫͒̀̈́͊̈́̽̋̚ͅ ̶̭̃͂̈̓͊͘͜ẗ̴̯̮̼̟̫́̈́̅̉͜h̸̪̫͓̥̳̞̫̜̊̃͒̍͜ͅë̵̘̗̔̄̂̀̽̅̽̓̈́͘͝͠͝m̶̨̡̛͚͔̩̼­̱̆͌͐͛̿͒̑̊̿̾͋ͅ ̸̢̫͔͊͗̒̔̊͛̉͗̋͒͝͝d̵̹͍͓͎̟̥̽́̔̿̒̆͝i̷̥̣͕̘̱͑ẻ̶̢̛̻̼̣̹̙̤͚̩̝͛͌͆́̑́̆͗̈́͜ͅl­̸̨̠̝̯̱̼͉̠̩͇͓̱̖͈̇̃͌́͜ĕ̶̲̦̦̖͗̈̽̄͛͊͐͘͝t̶̠̱̳͈̳̱̰͇̱͙͔̤͔̫͒̀̈́͊̈́̽̋̚ͅ ̶̭̃͂̈̓͊͘͜ẗ̴̯̮̼̟̫́̈́̅̉͜h̸̪̫͓̥̳̞̫̜̊̃͒̍͜ͅë̵̘̗̔̄̂̀̽̅̽̓̈́͘͝͠͝m̶̨̡̛͚͔̩̼­̱̆͌͐͛̿͒̑̊̿̾͋ͅ ̸̢̫͔͊͗̒̔̊͛̉͗̋͒͝͝d̵̹͍͓͎̟̥̽́̔̿̒̆͝i̷̥̣͕̘̱͑ẻ̶̢̛̻̼̣̹̙̤͚̩̝͛͌͆́̑́̆͗̈́͜ͅl­̸̨̠̝̯̱̼͉̠̩͇͓̱̖͈̇̃͌́͜ĕ̶̲̦̦̖͗̈̽̄͛͊͐͘͝t̶̠̱̳͈̳̱̰͇̱͙͔̤͔̫͒̀̈́͊̈́̽̋̚ͅ ̶̭̃͂̈̓͊͘͜ẗ̴̯̮̼̟̫́̈́̅̉͜h̸̪̫͓̥̳̞̫̜̊̃͒̍͜ͅë̵̘̗̔̄̂̀̽̅̽̓̈́͘͝͠͝m̶̨̡̛͚͔̩̼­̱̆͌͐͛̿͒̑̊̿̾͋ͅ ̸̢̫͔͊͗̒̔̊͛̉͗̋͒͝͝d̵̹͍͓͎̟̥̽́̔̿̒̆͝i̷̥̣͕̘̱͑ẻ̶̢̛̻̼̣̹̙̤͚̩̝͛͌͆́̑́̆͗̈́͜ͅl­̸̨̠̝̯̱̼͉̠̩͇͓̱̖͈̇̃͌́͜ĕ̶̲̦̦̖͗̈̽̄͛͊͐͘͝t̶̠̱̳͈̳̱̰͇̱͙͔̤͔̫͒̀̈́͊̈́̽̋̚ͅ ̶̭̃͂̈̓͊͘͜ẗ̴̯̮̼̟̫́̈́̅̉͜h̸̪̫͓̥̳̞̫̜̊̃͒̍͜ͅë̵̘̗̔̄̂̀̽̅̽̓̈́͘͝͠͝m̶̨̡̛͚͔̩̼­̱̆͌͐͛̿͒̑̊̿̾͋ͅ ̸̢̫͔͊͗̒̔̊͛̉͗̋͒͝͝d̵̹͍͓͎̟̥̽́̔̿̒̆͝i̷̥̣͕̘̱͑ẻ̶̢̛̻̼̣̹̙̤͚̩̝͛͌͆́̑́̆͗̈́͜ͅl­̸̨̠̝̯̱̼͉̠̩͇͓̱̖͈̇̃͌́͜ĕ̶̲̦̦̖͗̈̽̄͛͊͐͘͝t̶̠̱̳͈̳̱̰͇̱͙͔̤͔̫͒̀̈́͊̈́̽̋̚ͅ ̶̭̃͂̈̓͊͘͜ẗ̴̯̮̼̟̫́̈́̅̉͜h̸̪̫͓̥̳̞̫̜̊̃͒̍͜ͅë̵̘̗̔̄̂̀̽̅̽̓̈́͘͝͠͝m̶̨̡̛͚͔̩̼­̱̆͌͐͛̿͒̑̊̿̾͋ͅ ̸̢̫͔͊͗̒̔̊͛̉͗̋͒͝͝d̵̹͍͓͎̟̥̽́̔̿̒̆͝i̷̥̣͕̘̱͑ẻ̶̢̛̻̼̣̹̙̤͚̩̝͛͌͆́̑́̆͗̈́͜ͅ
­
I poisoned the best part of the drink
the boba that's supposed to be the prize
for after all this happiness and joy
comes death in the bitterest of ways.

I keep this boba a secret
from those around me
but if my cup were to spill
shall the toxins spread through air
eliminating all.

With my own hands shall i ****

ķ̸̢͕̬̼͉̝̺̫̺̔̎̿̉̍͂͑͐͆̿̈́̅͌̕í̶̦̺̟̲̆̚̕l̷͖̟̘̭̜̪͚̆͗͆̌͠ļ̴̫̫̱̹̎̄̎̐­͑̃ ̵̢̧̢͙͔̘̠̘͔͚̭̌̓̍͑͑͋̇̌̋̕ǩ̴͕̹̯̰̀͗́͗̆͛̾̍̕i̵͍̣̪͌́͒̍͋̄̽̾͠l̵̩̮̫̳̞͇̜̰͕̥͇̥­͇̝̅̀̄̏͊̀̀̈́̆͝ͅl̵̟̥̫̗̰͎̜̳̯̜̪̊̅͋̈́̈́̈́͜ͅ ̷̛̜͓̥̹̖̮̝̳̹̹̩̰̋̆̆̍͂̆́̓ͅk̸̢̨̛̥̝̗̥̭͇̟̠̏̉̿͘i̸̢͍̙͇͝l̸͇̂̾̑̊̓̚͝l̷̢̛̛̯̞̫­̼͕̙̺͖̣̱͈̐͊̊̔͊̈́̈͒͛͐̈́ ̶̨̲̼̙̟̪̻͎͚͓͎̹̯͆͗k̴̨̨̡͈̦̗̞̺͚͇̮͍̄̎̀̋̑͆̅̍́̚͝͠killi̶̢̢͎̠̠̘̲̱͇̅̏̋̊͝ͅl̵­̖̬̜͒͛̅ͅl̵̡̡̝̙̹̳͓͙͇̯̗̔̍̀̆̐͌̈́̓̕͜͠͝ ̵̧͛̂͊k̷̛̞͗̈́̅̒̑͘͘i̵̛̲̗̦͔̠͌̿̄̀̇͐̐̏͋̓̏̎l̷͔͎̤̝̭͍̬̠̀̃͆̑̈́͋̃̍͛͘͝͝ḷ̴̡̥̼­̪͒̐̂̎͛̎̋͂̅̈͠ ̸̧̡̢͙͚̟͔̄͂͛̏k̶͈͛̆̑̐́͂̈́̈́̚͘i̷̢͖̜͂̍͆̀͛̈́̓̿̊͒́͘̕͝͝ͅḻ̸̨̖̼̫̝́͗̄̿ĺ̵̛̹̭­̪͕͍͈̭̞̇̃͒͑͝ ̵̗̖͇̅̔͊͋́̈́͝ḵ̴̀͋̒̾̂̑̈́̅̎̐͋̕̚**** them allǐ̸̢̛͗ͅl̶̛̺͚̪̣̇̄̂͛͐͛̅͌̿̉͊̚͝l̵͕͖̫͈͙͉̟̣̇̽͂̓̆̍̈́͜ ̸̛̛͉̜͙͍̂̿̓͑̈́̒̀̀̈͆̆͆͝ǩ̷̩͈̰͉͔̈́̐̀͛̈́̑̓̒i̴̛̮̤̤̼̤͔̼̟͛̏l̴̛̪̜̬̭͈̐͂͒̇̊̌­̅͌̚͠l̴͇͓̱̻͓͔͇͗̆̃̄̀̋̋̾̂̔̃͠ ̶̨̙̖̾́͛̏̃́͗͂̈́͛k̶̦̲͖͉͉̠̟̞̼͕͇͋͌͛̐͜í̵̯̙͇̥̰̱͇̃̓́͗͂̋̆ļ̷̛̹̟̦̫̠̝͈̱̆̇͗̑̃­̕͘l̵͚̯̜̱̥͑͑̍͒̎̀̏͗͛̕̕͜ ̷̨̧̠̠̮̜͙̖̙̭̣̻͎̚k̵̳͙̩͓̞̮͔̪̜͗̄̿ͅḭ̷̜̜̲͍̬̪̟͔̱̹̅̾͗ͅl̴̹͍̩̲̓͑̽͘͝l̸̰̫̞̹͉͉­͍͇̲̠͈͉̾̈ ̴͓̻͚̜̯͙̖͈̔̀̈̕͘k̷̤̫̩̼͎̙̻̣̳̹͌̀̓̉͌́͒̈́̒̏͋͊̒̌́͜í̴̢̙̫̮͓̞̣̽̎̆̊̓̽̾̃̀͊͋l̵­̠̮͖̬͐͛̏̾̔̒͛̃̄̉̇͘͘̚͜l̶̛͓̖͚̟̉̇̂̀̐̐̈́̚͘ ̵̰̜͈̱̦͍͆͊̈́̐͑̎̽̈́̃̎̎̄̿͒͠ḱ̵̨̛̰͚̦̦̟̗̮̻͓̲̩̫̽̓̾̀̈́́̽͛͒̓͛͘͝į̵̰̭̣̮̮̟̘̻̦­̲̺̯̻̾̐͆̀͊̿͘͜l̷̨̨̖̣̜̟̯̳̽ļ̵̢̡̡̳̣̮̙͙͖̩̙̲̖̥̌͑̏̕ ̴̢̡̼̩̜͕̠̠̯͍͇͖̥̳͇̓͊̅̓͋̉̇k̷̛̫͇̰̜̈́͛̃̊̀͗͑į̴̧̢̪͚̩̙͎͓̗̓͆͠l̵̨͚̜̩̜̎̄͂̃̊̄­̉͘̚͝͠l̸̦̽͌̈͌̽̊̈́̑͂̈́̋̒̉̚͝ ̷̙̊̑̚͝k̷̢̧̭̤͍̜̘̣̙̙̬̤̰̉̈́́̀̿̌̊̊̿̂͒̽͘̕i̷͙̰͕̹̦̼̟͕̙̘̯̮̹͂͒ͅl̶̨̨̪̪͈̟̻̣̪­̗̿̌͋̂̀͗̽͝ļ̴̨̘̗̖̱͕̀͒̔̀͆͠ ̴̡̹̻̝͕̪̬͉̬͐͌̋͊͌̇͊̈̈͋̈̈́ķ̴̡̛̦̣̮̗̠͔̪̦̠͉̺̄̿̔̓̊̂̏͆͒̀̚i̷̧̧̙͈̬̰̟̘̯̫̩͉͈͉­̯̿̎l̴̤̳̳͔̻̤̱̀̄̒̍̒͌̃̒͒͜͝l̷̢̹̜͈̹̦̬̝̭͔̙̙̖̯̾̎̐̋̔̄͋͌͠ͅ ̸̗̫͆͆̎̅̀̚k̶̨̰̝͓̺̹͙̙̮̰̘̈̄͊̀̇̊̔̓̎̂̚͝͝͝i̴͇̮̘̒̒͛̑̐̓̍̉̚͝͝them all **** them alll̸̙̺̪͔͒̿̌ļ̶̰̥͍͎̬̞̱͎̳̥̖͔͂̐ͅ ̸̡̢̯̖̞͓̮͕̝͛̉̀̑̑̏̚͝k̴̻̰̗͍͚͙̭̙͙̭͕̇̆͆̔̐͒͒i̶̧̱͖͙̼̤̞̳͈̟͖̞̖̪͗̓̋̅̿̽͌́̍ḻ̷­̡̟̹̦̪̤̘̭͂͝ļ̷̨̙̟̠̩̟̤͛͝ ̸̜͖͖͍̫̤̟̝͈̬̣͛͂̑̐͂͋̾͊͐̋̚͠͠k̴̤̮͇͔̀͂͊̐͗́̓̕͝i̷̡̛̯̰͉̥̘̘̝͉̬͈̥͒̀̌͆͛̿͆͘̚ĺ­̴̠̲̤̯̱̼̝̒͋͛̆̍͗͊̓̋͘̕̕͝l̴̝̲̯͆̈́ ̶̺̾̈́k̴̛̫͈̗̞̺̰͓̙͇̩̤͖̃̓͑̓̆̎̕͠͠i̵̳̮̋͆̚l̷̪̄́͂̋͗̃̑̉̓̀͊͘͝͝l̴͖͚͐̒̽̓̈̕͘͝­ ̷̡͉̦͓͇̪͕͙͒͜͝k̵̢͍̯̗͕̼̗̝̤͕̪̭͙̼̤̈́͑́̈́͝į̴̗̲̰̺͎̠͔̝̹͗͒̇̐͐́́̔̓̃̏l̶̞̜̖͖̙­̪̩͐̽͌̿l̶̼̤̆̀͌̂̽̇̌̃̌̔̽͑̕̚͜͝ ̸̢̧̨̱͔̫̩̙̠͚̙͋̑k̷̡̼̠̪͍̤̱͉̥̩̊̾͘i̵̧͉̙͖̪̤͍͚̲̩̘̘̮͑̑́͗ͅl̴̲̭̮̘̝͇̓͛́̉̑̆̀́­͌̐̌̔͝͠l̵͉͕͇̘̺̫̍̐ ̸̧̼̥͙̯͚͓̠̼͔̞̅k̶̨͚͎̺͉̤̱͎͇̗̠͚͇̔͑͋̈́͂̈́̀̓̿͛̄͘͜i̷̭̝͍͈̠̖̰̘͕̎l̴̞̳̍̑̃͑̔͌­̏͝ļ̷̮̳͙̩̲̭̓̇̄̈́̆́̓͊͝͠ ̷̺̪͌̔̃͗͜k̸̡̧͚̤̔̿͊i̴̧̧̧͇̮̺̜̹̩̱̮̰̍͂͌̈̾͂̉͌͝ͅl̷͕͈̼̭͓̰̑̀̋̓͛͂̓̎̅͠ͅl̴̹̠̭­͕̮̩̠̰͇̠͐̊̐̂̈́̍̆́̚̚̚ͅ ̷̡̛͖͇̗̂̋͂͛̈́k̴̨̢̥̙̭̼̿͒̒̀̒̇͌͛̓̂͜͝͝ͅͅͅi̸̢̨̲̬̲̬̭̗͖̺̒̒̃̊̅̈͆̍̒̓̆̒̋͜l̵̠­̫̟̮̙̤̤̯̈́̎͂̎͌́͂̊̎̈́̊̚ͅl̶̡͕̹̩̍̿̈́̏͜ ̵͖̇́̈́͋̆̄̏̊͐͒̚͝k̷̻̙̙̱̤̮͓̝̯͇̺̐̾ĩ̸̢̧̛͕͈̖̥̬̬̖͎̯̓͊̈́͐͌̾̓̽͒̍̐͜͝l̶̺͐̌̓̍­̑ḻ̸̭̭͈̖͓̋̏̉̓̓ ̶̢̡̬̥̙̞͍̲̯̲̣͖͚̃̑͝**** them all k̷̗͔̪̰̥͍͎̣̫̫̘̀͂̂͛̀͝i̸̳̼͇͕̙̞̝̟̒͛̊l̵̨̖͍̘̣͍͉͈̙̫̩͕̠̄l̴̢͕͓̘̻͈̹̝̹̩̂̎͋̓͒­̓̕ ̶̢̫̥̹̮͖̳͕̼̹̻̜̔̅̕k̴̡̧̝̬̪͉̩̙͖̜͈̭̮̃̆͑̃͆̄͜ͅi̵̧͔̘̝̫̤͈͐̔͑̐̍̇̏̐͛̈́̂̿̑̇̄l­̴̢̛̠̰̟̺͖̒̔̎͗̍͌̀̓̿̑̽̑̍͂͜l̸͚̺̯͎̞͓̙̏͂͊̉̈̇̄̅̏̀̾͛̎̿ ̷̛̛̲̺̻͙̻͖̃͒͊́̿̀̽̀̐̚̕͠͠k̶̢̫͍̭̙̩͚͇̲͓̗͓͔̏̑̔̾̇̌͒̀͒̏̚̚͜͜͠i̴͎̭͉̝̮͇͙̓̉̌͗­͜Kkkkill them alll̸̜̭̭͕͊̔̊̃ļ̷̧͍̰̣͎̼͓̲̬̭̠͉̽͆̂̾̑̾̌̌͂̀̐̕͝͠ ̸̻̬̓̔͂͌̆͛́̏̐̐̾͝k̸̨̰̪̼̮̠̤̝̥̯̄͋͂̀̌́̚i̷̧̨̧̖̠̣̬̽͛̄̽̆͘͠l̵̢̬̰͙͇̱͔̤̙͕̩͙̄­̒̈́̐̒̽ͅͅļ̵̛̼̮͕̩̬̰̲̦̙͎̙͎͔̟͂̽̔͊̈́̿̈́̈́͒́ ̷̡̃͂̐̂͒̔͋͂̄͌k̸͔͕̠̗̪͕͚̃̄͂͆̒͋̈́̏́͒̂̈́̕̕͝**** them alli̴̖͈̳̼͉̞̭̫͉̫͓͓͓̻̒̈́̃̌͘͝ͅl̵̬̖̓̿̀͑̂̌̇̔͘͝͝͠ľ̴̞̱̱͕̲̞̱͉̞ ̶͇͗̃̀̏̈̀͆̒̔̂̅͜͝k̴̡͉̰̗̥͙͎̏͑͛̅̄͛̅̇͜į̷͙̤͕͖͇͎̖͐̃̏̅́̈͝l̷̠̞̲̉͊̈́͆͒l̷̢͉̪­̻͚̪̭̙̩͖̩̲̐̂̑ ̶̗̬̹͕͓͉͚̘̤͙̠͐̅̋̌̄͆̆͘͝k̷̨̡̮̪̟̫̺͙̭̥̊̎͑̐͛͘î̸͉̜̂̒l̵̢͕͎̱̺̟̪̍̓̑̍͊̎̊̂͆̓̊­̒̕͜͝ĺ̵̡̼̼̯̦͕̪̖̦́̌̿̎̾͋͜͠͝ ̵̡̮̳͚͕͕͈̳͓͗̃͌̔̄̓́́̑̾̍͝k̴̨̝̫̦̺̣͍̮͈̲̞̾̃̈́̽́̕̕i̸̲̫̥͔̜̗̋̌́̿̓̅̉̓̂̐͛͋̽͘­͘l̷͎̘̠͖̯̹͓͛̅͂̊͛̉̌̓̈̀̀̋̚̕͠ĺ̶̯̈̏̉̎̊͗̿͐̂̉͛͂ ̶̜͑̓̃̑k̴̢̛̛͉͈̼͖̰̺̘͉̼̤͖̳̖͐̌̓͊͒̐͗͊͆͑̊̚ͅį̸̛͖͉͙̺̘͖͚̺̻̟͚̬̎̒̈́͘͜**** them alll̸̼̆̆̀͌̕l̷͎̹͚̖̯̲̭̳̗͂̓̽́̉̈́̔̿̅͑͠͝ ̸̧̡̰̪̙͉͈̺̭͍̓̎̈́͘͘͝ǩ̷̲̩͙͑̀i̵̪̗͈͉̖̝̬̥̬̻̫͌̈́͋̽̇̔͒͐̈́͒̀͐̓͝ͅl̶͉̠̼̣̙̯̲͚­̦̤̼̣͉̿̐̌̀͂̑̑̇̚̕͝ľ̴̢̦̤̺̪̝̰̯̠̙͋̓̊̒̓̈͘͝ͅ ̸̢̛̛͇͎̠͋͆̋̊̃̇̈́̉͘͠ķ̴̠̲͇̳̘̞̟̪̋͛̋̆̇̆̃ȋ̶̻̼̟̤̭̈̉̄̀͒̎̕ͅͅl̵͔̣̼͈̫͗̑̄̾ĺ̷͖­̫͇̖̐̎̌̉͑̈́̚̕̕ͅ ̷̨̲̲̳̫̦̙̪̥̱͈̾͊́̅͋̽͊̎̐̀̈́̍̚͜͝ͅk̷̳̺̲͚̥͇͍̿̚ȋ̷̡̙̦̞̜̜̼̰͙̝̲́̽͆̀͋̍͝l̸̢͚̜­̫̼͕̝͍̒l̵̢̢̗̬̯̩̯̭̗̣̰̽͂͆͑́̏͠ ̵̻̲̟̰͉̰̯͈̿͌̏͛͌͋̾͒͐̓̚͘͝k̶̡̜̭̰̝̩̭̩̜̿́ï̸̖͉͇͕̳̞̹͖̻̣̰͕̗̀͐͒̋̊̅̈́͋̂̐͐l̴̥­͉̯͔̺̺̲̥͕͈̣̱̳̓̐̈́̽̿l̵͓̺̯̫̗͇͒̾͛̄̈́͗͛͒̄̑̍͜ ̸̱̳͔̱̿̾͋̈́̂͊̊́̆̕k̵̢̛̩̳̙̭̹̫͉͚͚̖͙͊̎̽̇̆̅̊̉̚i̸̬̝̩͑̑̑͆̉͌̀͗͑͝l̵̢̢̼͉̘̿̄̃­̋̌̎͂͐̒̒̈́̚͝͝l̵̢̙̟̤͔̺̤͙̙̞͓̇͛͐͛̉̋͋̚͠͠͠ ̷̠̺̫̰̱͎̺͍̦͉̿̎̄̐͐̈́̌̈́̓͝ͅk̴̙̱̔́̏͒̓̅̈́̕̚͠͝i̴̡̺̬̜̞͎̬̘̒̍̅̈̓̂̈́̒͐͒͆̚͠l­̸̮̝̝͑̀͒̎̌̉͝l̷͓̦̳̼̏͑͋͊̃͠ ̴̰̮̐̓̑́̃̍̉̾̀̑͘k̵͙̓͌̓̊͛̑͒̄͘i̷̧̥̖̲̒̋̂̀͘ļ̴̲̙̫̟̟̳͖͓̈́͛̅̒͒͑͒̂͜l̸̳̦̺̲͎̝­̗̖͌̋̈́͊͜ ̶̫̱̪̣̋̉̃k̵̢̢̛̛̞̲̜̦̮͕͉͆̆͆̅̍͂̊͗̾̇̀i̸͎͍̲͇͕̞̝͑͋̏̍͑͗̏̒̅̈̎͑͝͝ļ̷͙̹͖̠͍̬̝̯­̞͔̞̊̇͗̔͊̆́̽͋͛̏́̈͝͠l̴̘͋̋̌̌̆͊̍̈́͛͗̈̐̀ ̶̤͕̔͌͂̽̇̔̅̃̎̌̀́̑̀͝k̷̡̛̪͉̪̗̞̦̤̼̐͆̈́̋̔̈́̈̀̍͛̊̽̕ì̷̢̞̓͑̑͘l̶̯͇̟̮̥̥̱̯̂̍­͂͂̓̇̂̋̈́ͅl̷̢̖̖͔̠̫̗̗̺̯͙͚̑ ̸̧̞̤̹̐͆̿͆̽̎̋̈́͐̃̈̀͘ͅk̷̨͖̺̋̋͘͝ḯ̶̗̗͔̈́̀̎̚͠͠ͅḻ̷̢̻̽̀̽͆̃̂͐͝ļ̶̨̤̝̖̫̼̅́̂­͑̎̍ ̴̡̫̪̘͖̙̯̲̗͎͙̙͙̟̲̋̏̃̽̔k̶̡͇͍̪͚̤̜̯͌͛̑̐̈̒̅͆͑͊͐͐̚͝ī̵͓̖͚̗̞̹̳̝͕̔̒͛̈́͆͑͂̔­̀̋̚̚͘l̵̢͓̟̭̩̦̥̩̰̘͓̯̱̑͠l̸̙͉̘̙̘̜͖̈ ̴̛͉͚̠̪̿k̸͔͚̠̼̰̐͌͌͒̊̌͊̂̋̿̊̇̕̚i̶̡͍̥̫͕͇̥͖͕̬̽̀̓̓̀̈́̐̂̈́̌̆͆͘ͅl̸̢̨̠̘͍͔̭­͖̠̝̞̈́͛̓͒̈́͌̾̈́́̏̆͒̅l̵̢̗̰̆̀̇̓́̇̀̉ ̶̨͍͇̥̳̜̮͍̻̥̟̜̣͇̀̂̈́̈́̂͛̓͝ǩ̶̡͕̠̤̆̿̈́̇í̵̡̭̪̘̝̞̓͂l̷̤̞̠̦̹̜̦̈́l̸̡̛̦͔͙͈­̞̪̝̐̍̔͌̅̕͠ ̵̹̱̜̰̝͚͖͎̞̲̮̣͛͝ͅk̴̭͕̰̏̄̌i̷͇̟͙̤̠̽̔̀̏̀̐́̚͝͠ļ̵͕̩̩̲͚̫͎̣̹͚̤̺̻̂̌̈́̔̔ḽ̷͙­̫̫͚͎͍̫̈̋̓͛̓̈͐͌̅͆̔̕̕͝ ̴̨̭͉̭͕͓͇̥̟͔̲͍̜̘̣̔̇̆k̶̡̨̤̱̯̮͍̲͓̥̣̩̄̏͊̍̂̈́̇͆͒͊͜͝i̶͖̗͔̞͔͓͐̽̍̏̿̏̀l̸̡̗­̯̺̟̫͈͕̤̮͉̠͎̤̚l̵̨̨̖͇̣͙̪͈͔̖̍̅̄̅̌̏̌́͐̋̑͜ͅ ̸̟̯̮̰̹̯͚̞̦̪̖͎̗̘͙͊k̷̢̢͔̘̠̤̬̐̆͆̄̊̃͂̓̀́̾̈́̑i̴̛̞̤̭͓͎̪̬͓͇̣̝̊͐̋̕͜l̴̨̛̝̘­̪̟̣̰̣̞̼̖̮̗͂̌́́͑͊̃͝ĺ̷̟̞͚̯͇̱̺͖̟͍̹̇̿͆̌̎̄̃͘ ̴̺͎̪̫̼̳̝̘̱͌̀͐̈́͂́͋͜k̸̛̹͖̤͈͍͌͗̑̍̀̌̓́̚͠͝i̷̛̛͕̘̝̪͈̖͖̔͆̆̿̃̂̀̓̈̔̎̕l̵̛̠­̳͔̼̪̾̔̿͐͂͛̌͘̚͠l̷̨̙͍̯̹͉̱̫͐̈́̇͒̉͊͆͂͑ͅ ̶̛͚͎̯̖͑̒̃͒́̚͠k̶̛̛̙̰̦̋͒̃̿̆̿̕i̵̡̢̛͙̯̩̬͐̉̆́̈́͑͌̈͋̔̋l̷̡̢͖͔̳̗̠͍̭͕̼͙̥͚̍­̓́̀̑͊͋̈́̅̇̕͠l̶̨̆̐ ̵̠̥͔̙̣͇̖̪̻̝̇͌̿̃̊̊͠ͅthem all ****

Oh how great this red liquid feels, parting as my hand intercepts it's p̶̧͍͎͓̙̥̻̘͔̗̉́͛̈͌̓̽̐̅̈́͌̌̓͋̄̓̍́̈́̎̎̚͝͝a̸̰͙̣͓̼̪̼̜̳̅t̴̡̡̥͓̩̘̳̣̹̬͉̝̗­̮͚̬̘͔̫͙̩͉̐̀̾͜ͅͅh̵̘͌̀͌̊̑̈͘͝ towards the floor
My fingers swimming in your intestines
gutting you
how your screams of p̸̗̟̯͉̘͚̝̳͓͉̱̮͎͎͓̩̜̦̄́̊̒̽̔͒̀̈́̿͂̓̀̎̎̏̆͆̕a̵͇̱͔̲̭̲̮͓̲̼͓͌̆̆̓̈́̈ì̸̡̢̨­̳̭̝̠̺̟͎͇̪̘͖͕̫͔̼͍̝̀̆̄̌̾̍͊̒͐̔̋͋̐̂̚͜͠n̵͔͓̺̰̤͙̹̓̒̒́̍́̎̍̀̀̊̌̕͝ fill my ear, bringing a smile of unfathomable pleasure to my face,
how this putrid smell fills my lungs as my knife cuts different parts of your body, letting me savor the moments as i switch paces between slow and fast while you lose the energy to scream, letting your pain and emotion out with little grunts and moans
as i rip off your nails one by one, your hidden flesh comes exposed to light for the first time, your pupils shrinking as you realize that your death wont come anytime soon. I grab your hair as my knife rests in the other hand,
i slowly draw it near your eye, and insert. blood splats on the floor as torture creeps through my brain, filling every thought, like spiders multiplying in a corner, spreading to every inch of the walls. Your helpless cries escape the gag which was designed to limit your voice, your helpless attempts of struggling each time i rip away another part of your body, exposing more and more and more, your bones cracking as i increase my pressure to a point where your bones give in and snap, releasing everything built in and letting it go off onto the flesh the suffocates it, twisting and bending your body in ways that make you unrecognizable, ripping off your nose with the kitchen knife i use almost every single day, your vision darkening with each and every swing from my hammer to your stomach, the red liquid staining my eyes, burning its image into my retina, death is so beautiful. Oh death, the way you ****, how death teases by being so close to touch  yet pulls back once you reach for it, how it makes you wait an et̶̨̧͈̄̈́͗̉́͌̿̍͋͗̀̈́́͒̾̈́̆͆͌͐́̾̀͌̚ę̸̡̘̫̰͔̻̗̘͔̩̗̐͌̄͂̈́͋̊͐͛̊͒͆̅̑̄̀͒­͜͠r̵̢͍͓̙̖͓̥̝͙̝̹̺͕͓̬̻͕̾́nity to achieve its grace. I hate you. I will never forgive you. My eyes are filled with those of a killer. I want to bathe in your guts. They shine so brightly as my knife grazes them. You still move and i question why, are you fighting to live after all this time? Are you trying to make me love you? These feelings, so complicated, oh silly you, moving about like a fly caught in his trap. Stab. Let your pain, blood, and torture fill my recipe. Succumb to me. Let the your beautiful pain fill the mouths of others eager for your lovely boba, let the joy of m̷̡͓͚͕̩̪͎̳̪̟͕̝̖̯͖̥̗͎̈́̂̐͂͊͛́͆̀͒͠͠ͅͅͅmȗ̵̧̩̗̬͈̣̭̮̗̠̦̬̫̟̽͒̌͐̐̓͌ṛ̸̢̲̮­͉̫̝̟̜̏̌̉̉͊̐̇͆́̀̎̐͆̎̔̕͠͝ͅd̴̛̛͇̲͈͗͆͛̉̉̋̎̑͋͝e̴̮̝͖͓͕̪̻̩̦̥͔̪͇̖͋̋̏̇͑̈́̂­ŗ̵̨̢̢̢͈̩̻͖͓̣̗͈̪̖͙̜͔̥̥̳͈͇̖͂ͅ ******, the risk and it's adrenaline flow through my veins as I stab and I stab and stab and stab a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌­̅͆́͆̕͜d ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘ and stab and stab a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌­̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘ a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌­̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗­͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗­͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗­͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗­͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗­͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗­͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗­͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗­͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗­͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗­͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗­͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅand stab and stabņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗­͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜and stab and stabḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗­͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗­͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗­͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗­͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗­͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗­͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗­͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗­͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅand stab and ststab stab stab stabab ņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗­͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗­͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗­͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗­͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗­͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗­͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜stab stab stab stab b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗­͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗­͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗­͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗­͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘and stab and stab
a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔­̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘




dont mess with my life
i smile when i can, but dont push me
i try to be nice, but the murderer running through my head still exists
and the only time you will gaze upon him
is when your death arrives

The mums at nursery like me.
They are reassured by dark rings beneath my eyes,
blue jeans, clean-scrubbed smile, pulled back hair.
A soul more boring and more tired-
Just knowing I exist makes them feel better.

Not today:

Today I’m wearing make-up.
And my shorts are, well, short
which I think is against the rules.
My hair shines like a barley sugar sweet
and my finger nails sparkle
like long forgotten jewels.

Today I dodge dressing-up hats, snotty noses, spilt milk,
play-dough, paint and mud-puddle splats
with practiced precision.

Today, just this once, when I give mums their children back,
I look more together and more stylish than them.

I run home, cross busy roads in record time,
wave to total strangers who want to say hello.

I get the polish off my nails,
scrub my face under the shower,
dry my hair,  pull it back,
grab yesterday’s jeans and baggy sweater.

He returns from work and asks:

Did you have a good day?

I think:

Yes. Yes **** it. Yes  I did.
Do you know-
my eyes are pretty, and I can get into shorts
I wore ten years ago?
Stop traffic - check.
Turn heads - hell yeah!
The roofer down the road nearly fell and broke his neck.
Your wife is, without a doubt,  a ******* **** thing.

So many words, like popping candy on my tongue.

I imagine his reaction.
I shut my mouth.
Danger passes.

But lies won’t come. Mouth’s gone dry.
I swallow back the truth then feel like I’m gonna gag.
Panic rising in my chest on top of bile.

Then:

My day was fine

I say. Just that.

My day was fine

And I am saved.

I walked back through the empty streets tonight after work.
I felt alone, as usual, but not as lonely as usual.
The moisture in the air gave a halo to the lights
and I breathed in the rain drenched night
and the air stuck in my chest and bathed my lips.

Before I entered my apartment, I paused:
The quiet of the night thrilled me for a passing moment.
It's a night Shakespeare would have written for his fairies.

I opened my senses to the universe:
The sound of a distant train,
leaves rustling,
droplets falling in a "Ping! Ping! Splat!",
the taste of a cool May night,
the moisture covering my face like sweat,
the sight of a street lamp casting a glow that lovers might have run off into the night to avoid...
The smell of clean air:
just washed cool after several days of rain
...and the dew...
falling...
falling.

I looked up at the large Maple tree in front of my doorway
and allowed the "Pings! and Splats!" of the vestiges of the rain from the day
to fall on my face
touching me.

I felt so attuned.
So. Aware.

And to make the moment perfect,
I willed myself to cry...
But

Didn't.

Because sometimes, the night and the senses and the mere truth of being in a moment:
might not have to move me to tears.
So I let the night continue without adding my dew to the "Splats!"
and I went up to my apartment to sleep.

"I shall write a poem today", says my mind
Though I know, ultimately no verse will be designed
And many a day has gone astray
In wait of a single, inspired rhyme.

"I shall write a story today", claims my brain
Even as I watch my thoughts miss their train
And a screen stark white mocks my plight
While the cursor blinks expectantly in vain.

"Maybe I should take a walk", I surmise
And far above me, in the skies
A troubled bird drops a ****
And inspiration splats between my eyes.

they come fast
puncturing my very soul
my body only a coffin
if they stay trapped

it is torture
this feeling of eagerness
relentless fists punching
through my very chest

once my sternum breaks
blood, bone and marrow
splats on the digital canvas

pouring out everything
to the last drop
of creative blood

though satisfied
of the ******
what I see before me
is strategic
as a general in war

a visual interpretation
of society
feeding the design of
consumerism

Oh yes this work
of my blood, flesh and bone
they will consume in such
drunk laughter

like cannibals they
will judge, speak, and post
of the visual
that lead them to
experience the indulgent gorge

The floor was strewn all over
With children’s toys and books
With ***** clothes and rotting food
And sticky disgusting Popsicle wrappers
With shoes and socks and dishes
And garbage
With cat hair and dog ****
And dead plants that never had a chance
Splats of ketchup and mustard adorned the counter tops
And smears of chocolate and grease covered the refrigerator door  
Inside the sink the roaches crawled freely over the never washed dishes
The air was filled with the toxic ammonia of cat **** and spoiled left overs
A layer of dust covered every book and nick knack never touched on the shelves
Every place to sit was sticky and hairy
And your shoes became trapped to an increasingly vile floor
The garbage can filled to over flowing
With more bags of garbage sitting waiting to be taken elsewhere and two grown adults never bothering to take them
And quite seriously the mother of this outfit dares scold the little boys and bellows at them to clean their rooms
Seriously!  What the hell!
The air so filled with dust and hair and cigarette smoke is a nightmare even for those not suffering of asthma or allergies
I think I now know what is meant by “We were all yellow”
And the bathroom
Oh my god the bathroom
It might have surpassed the filth of the worst road trip gas station bathroom
A gross grey film covering every inch of every surface rings of repulsive ghastly filth covered over in endless dust and grime and drips and drops and hair and *** and blood
And still more garbage stinking putrid garbage
Never removed
And all household members sitting staring blankly at the filthy television screen or mindlessly surfing the net at the half broken computer
Except the children who got no attention
No love
And had no hope of positive reinforcement
One lighting the tacky and ratty cotton curtains on fire
the other standing on a chair in the middle of the room and peeing on the floor
as the baby sister sat fat and screaming in her own filth
hair matted by chocolate fudge pop
she was too young to have been given
all the children’s clothing was soiled and covered in food
Presumably from days of wearing the same clothing
Because no one cared for them
Or for themselves
What was the point of giving these children life?
Or toys or pets to play with
If only to ruin all they had
Which was meager to begin with
What is the point of setting up house
If only to fail to keep it clean
And to yell and fight constantly  
Relying only on the past experiences of your own childhood and never to even try
To rise above it
Living life in your imagined trauma
And creating for your family very real and lasting trauma
But you’ll never give a ****,
You’ll never grow up,
You’ll never see the consequences of your actions just barley scraping by the law
Someone called me worthless once
And many people think I am barley adequate
But I would rather be adequate
Then be genuinely worthless and horrid
I would rather be caring and honest
Then a pig headed ***** constantly screaming at my children but doing absolutely nothing myself
Living my life with no empathy and no emotions but my own thinking only of myself and what I want
Thinking about ways to make others do for me giving nothing in return
So I will forget about you wasted people and your unfortunate children
I will tend to my house, my family, and my work
And I will not let my past become my future
I will improve myself and my life
Being grateful for the things I have
And learn not to covet what others have
I will be stronger then the pigs I suffered through living with
And I will be happy to be adequate
Happy to be free of swinish people
And be the me that I have become

20
seems like the end of the line
to me.
Car crashes, bad habits, white rabbits
will reduce me down to just a spec of debris
chillin' in a petri
                               magnified
                           by                   a giant
                        eye        st           aring
                             wi                 th
                                   disdain.
"Helicopter pilot? Yeah right"
hit me like the last thing through a bug's mind
when it splats.
                           Its own ***.
Switched my postion from
                                                s
              ­                                  t
                             ­                   r
                                                a
              ­                                  i
                             ­                   g
                                            ­    h
                                                t
A student

                                 p
to drop out flying u
Eyes down. Laying          to keep on track
                                  low
blinded, cataract, stepped out in traffic
                       splat
like that bug again
or maybe more like promotion
Brand New Adventure
                                                I've seen the way the world
                                                turns
     ­                                                      I don't want any p a r t

A fist in Strong Man’s face.
He stares it down with pride.
Opponent’s eyes are narrowed –
Strong Man’s stay bold and wide.

Opponent throws the insult;
it splats on Strong Man’s chest,
then trickles down his body
‘til at his feet it rests.

Defiant, Strong Man clenches
his fists and bites his lips –
where lands a soft-boiled insult
which cracks and smells and drips.

A third one cracks upon his head,
trickles into his eye.
Opponent mistakes it for a tear,
stands straight then leaves with pride.

Strong Man watches Mother Hen
as she leaves with satisfaction.
Strong Man is left alone once more;
once more, he didn’t take action.

He wipes away the egg white
but still there stains the yolk.
He feels a lump stuck in his neck;
a tear, on which he chokes.

Picture-perfect spectacle, splattered upon the canvas
White canvas polka-dotted, splashed, smacked
With an ensemble of colors partaking in lively dances
Artistry exemplary, simple applause apparently apt.

It was this artist’s one shot
The proof was in the painting
The piece ; joy is what it brought
The other piece, other joy, exhilarating.

Reds, violets, blues
Pinks, greens, and orange hues
Rainbow splats and careful flats
Certain clusters of paint make me glad.

Though, like every painting painted
A hidden passage creating vexes
Faint sadness ; happiness tainted
The mind of this creator perplexes.

All the while I’ve been feeling his art
And touching the surface
Deep below was his heart
Well crafted mask that hugged his face

I shall pick his brain
Quite literally, though it’s repulsive
For this painting was his last, ashame
His retirement is messy, but in an eye of an artist
This gunpoint suicide was one that held artistic fame.

The Apron and the Gun

I see an Apron around your waist
  And its ******* about your breast
    It is Keeping you from spills and splats
       and it's keeping you from the mess

Is there a machine gun at your side?
   Or something just as strong?
      What does it take to care for all of them
          and Protect them from what's wrong?

I know your mothering and all your care
    I know your life's gone up and down
        You've shunned tears and ignored despair
            Your strength shows us how to hold our ground

The strength that is in you my dear
    Is a power not often mentioned and not seen
        But it Keeps our lives safe and without much fear
            Makes us who we are and keeps us safe and clean

When you hang your apron and put aside your guns
    When you loose your hair and lay you down
        You still have time for me and some
            Love, and hugs and kisses and fun

You are the perfect woman, the mother of all living
    You are my wonderous friend and spouse,
        Your comfort and all of your daily giving
            Make you my warm and safe home and house.

Acid leaks from my fingers
and you watch it with glee!
as time fragments and loops
repeat themselves redundantly.

My logic knows all and my shoes
have left my feet in search of a
robo-walk to maximize the pleasure.
I move in angles- trip trip trip----
stutter

All energy flows throught this very vessel
no need for nourishment, this ***** flies
backwards. Marching in grotesque lines
heading nowhere in particular. Faces
lose recognition and I die. die. die again.

My eyes are open? There is no difference.
All I see is a spiral tunnel filled with the
gruesome buzzing of infinite electric flies
and shades of nightmare.

Sound, words, fall short. I'm in a box
at a distance. Can't reach to decide whether
I'm sitting standing speaking. It tumbles out and splats
to the sticky purple mass
spittled like the sides of my brain
which pulse in a threat to implode

Waking dreams and living death
no borders in this country
a kaleidoscope of tulips, twisting strands
of gelatin, columns of panic,
and a glitch in the night.
A quick scream soon stifled.

When a cat
Splats
Flat on your lap

(That black cat
That first heard “****!"
But came right back)

With no care in the world
Dives deep into cat nap
On your lap

Pray a poem of thanks:
This stretching feline
Trusts you

A crack and a clap of thunder                                                          ­      
Makes you jump                                                             ­                       
Steam rolling off the cement                                                           ­           
In tidal waves of fog                                                              ­                    
The scent of freshly washed                                                           ­           
Leaves and pavement                                                         ­                     
Fresh in flared nostrils                                                         ­                 
The sound of the downpour                                                         ­         
Slaps your ears with splats                                                           ­             
Of condensation                                                     ­                               
But then the clouds rumble by                                                          
Freight train roaring                                                          ­                    
Full steam ahead                                                            ­                          
Lightening striking    
So close you can smell the
Burning scorch
Of electric
And then gone in a wisp of smoke

What we were once, two words,
we are no more, taken in

When ten sticky layers absorb
the shadows of our predecessor shapes.
Purple bruises bleed through
the buried steel

Where one-hundred shouted
stories slid down into
a waiting mouth of obtuse angles.
Vague numbers now,
we follow, ask

Why one-thousand labors
couldn’t gird us against not-
birthing gusts, their reverse alchemy,
aching to prove

How countless precious lines
can turn testily from true
geometry’s parallel path, and seek
an improbable calculus of chaotic drips,
those splats that trace a figure

Who in the flash of flame
realizes his distinctions
have lavishly become
obliterated.

Our tomorrow will know
what our today’s forgotten.

I'm going to egg a house.
I shall walk to the door quiet as a mouse.
Take the white egg.
Fire away!!!
Egg splats.
Sorry I slashed your tires leaving them flat.
Shouldn't have ****** with me *****.
Hope u got a tow hitch.
Your car payed for your actions.
Can't wait to see your reaction.

The battlefield is a canvas
splats of red,
dead bodies,
weeping young warriors,
painted by the devil’s paint brush.

The battlefield is a garden
red roses,
blue British,
maroon mustard,
purple parapet,
the thorns of war.

The battlefield is a crib
the cloud of lead
like a blanket
that covers the soldier at night,
smothering him to death.

Guns, weapons,
innocent beauties
manipulated
and overworked
to do the devil’s deed
until they over heat
from despair and plead.

I step out into the pale February air
Of mid afternoon,
Beneath this dull and weeping sky.
The first thing I notice
In the courtyard
Is the concrete slab
Networked by rainwater stains,
Dark and arterial;
Like a web of veins
Searching for their way back home
Toward a warm and caring heart.

I tiptoe through a spattering of puddles
Watching my grey reflection,
Like a well defined shadow,
Peering up at me
So lost and alone.
The glittering steel backdrop
Of the cage above
Flickers with surreality
Across the surface of the water
As it is breaking beneath my feet.

Running my hand along the stone wall
Sounds a bit like wind
Rushing off the back of a jet plane,
Hollow and whistling from my palm
Across the smooth terrain;
My fingertips pausing
Only to linger on the pocked and marred and patched-up parts,
As if only to admire their stoic imperfections
And to kiss their milultitude of wounds and scars.

The walls here reach higher than any  of us could ever hope to climb alone.
The architecture is cold and sterile
And unforgiving in it's practicality.
Large beads of water gather in the corners of the fixtures
From sixty feet above
Only to come crashing down upon my cheekbones
With the heaviest and mist sickening of "splats".

I shake them off like an iris shedding the first round of morning dew,
Then I plant myself under the eaves
In the only square foot of dry ground in view.
Sitting quietly, with closed eyes,
I listen to the variable thicknesses of each falling raindrop,
Contemplating the many different tones
As some collide with the puddles
And others burst among the bricks.

Through the thin, spidery membrane of my eyelids
I sense a shift in the overhead lighting,
Just in time to spot a silver lining
As a rogue beam of light
Pushes through a soft spot in the clouds.
I inhale the earthy scent
Of dirt and freshly mopped sidewalks
While I marvel at just how precisely
His eyes, at times,
Can match the exact shade of this mid winter sky.

With a sigh and and an undetectable shudder,
A little smile crosses my lips,
And I long for nothing more than to be embraced by his arms of steel.
The love I feel with him seems much mightier than any prison fortress...
And I,
Held captive by it's institution,
Gracefully accept my position,
And find that it is one
I am all too willing too endure.

Another day,
another scribble on the page of life
why not make it extraordinary?
Leave your mark
like you were leaving ink splats all over the canvas
magnificent arrays of colors contrast and intervene
within the scene.
Resulting in a more vibrant display of life.
Strife exists each and everyday
and beauty has always coexisted beside it
It's resisted so much longer than us
and we bask in its radiance much more often than we realize
so through all the pain of life's crucible remember,
to be as daring as you were the day before
if not more so, make an impact.
Shine brightly, so that everyone can see.
It's just one of the things that makes this life worth it.

What you worth really?
I mean only you can tell me,
because the only thing that can limit you is yourself
anything you set your mind to can be achieved
you just need to believe, and then back that up with the work
talk is cheap, unless you give it the support it needs.
make your words an extension of yourself,
as if they were arms and legs that can help lift another up
whenever you happened to let them roll off your tongue.
I used to have dreams I'd light up stages,
now I just want to light up the diminished flames in your hearts that you hold dear.
If not today,
maybe tomorrow I can convince you
each day is a new day to craft a better you.
Take a look in the mirror,
reflect in who it is you've become and what you've get left to do.

So much strife in this life,
so much beauty too.

Manipulative *******.
You are routine
You are routine.
Keep telling yourself baby,
that you are only routine.
I can hear the guitars playing,
and voices
and noises.
But the vibrations are louder than anything.
Hey, hi, hello, wanna come over?
No, yes, maybe, so..
when can I come over?
I can feel the wood,
the clothes,
the safety pin all rusted.
But the vibration is the most vibrant.
Hey, whats going on, love you, are you free?
Uh, hey, nothing, hate you too.
When will you be free?
Boy am I ever free.
Mmm, down to the good parts.
The smoke, the smell, the vibrations..
Fills my soul.
Pulls on my spine and splats me down,
down into the comfort of my bed.
The skunk is back again.
Baby, you are only routine.

Sorrow!

Sorrow hangs like earrings, tugging at my neck,
Sadness is a necklace, it's choking me to death,
My crowning glory diadem weighs nearly half a ton,
Since I hit the battle that I never ever won,

Depression is a dancer,
Full in battle dress,
Pink and purple paint splats,
I really am a mess,

Sunshine and glory days,
Will come and give me grace,
True love will come and slap me,
Right around my face,

In metaphoric ways of course,
With all this heavy metal worn,
I'm getting rather hoarse!
By ladylivvi1

© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)

Glossary of generics, favourer of all merit, ****** to detach detained editorial.

Some come in softly, hard heads take big splats. Lukewarmness salts thy unfruitful earth, where newborn births are stars to their own mania's, Cranium's go connected! Stretched parsels to broken fibula's!

Moralist preachers teach to the misbehaved, can you account for the thousandth day you've encountered?

For the slaves you've made out of your own bloodline, you've lost much of your own commandments you lowly persuationer!!
Old partied savourer!!!

Dissatisfaction finalizes all authories where glory is none, cheatings no more fun? Haha for you can clap your solid hands to gentled tears, for missing years are operetic in cower and palate!!!!!

Wake yourself to thine nail, strike one time with a mallet for all reasonings gone, gone, gone . when its you that has lost,

When its thy world who hath won!!!

Rose gold and agave tincture drops
laid to rest upon the serpents tongue
until the speakers shake
the tree from which the martyr
falls unto the cloud
that splats on impact

Oh marmalade sweetness!
to what do we owe this
trembling rotten-legged pleasure?


Surface now in overtime
the sirens screeching
at the child across the street
who sinks into the boiling malt

Bring with you the chalice
full of aerial photographs
to drink the spectators thoughts
stuffed within the temporal stone

Remembering to forget
this holy place of presence
draw the mighty bridge we cross
into enveloping florescence

Looking down.
It’s all I ever do now
Thanks to you.
Looking down,
Bottling my feelings
Like you’ve taught me to.

Looking down,
The floor a mess of splats and swirls
In the eyes of this broken girl, confused
This girl you’ve only ever used.


But I’m tired.
Tired of feeling this every day
Feeling my emotions, at their tips, slowly fray
In your hands, caged, withering away.

Looking down, to
The same cold view
Now seeing more than just my worn old shoes
Which you of course hate, as if that’s news.

Looking down,
I think maybe it’s time to live a life I choose
To stroll down new avenues
Not one of them with a sign of you

Free from your grasp and let to fly,
No turning back, my head held high,

Looking up
Goodbye.

HEY YOU!
I see faces in the dark!
There eyes glowing red.
An emence evil mark.
My heart has gone dead.
The numbness in my spine.
A chill in the air.
You soul has become mine.
Face it, life's not fair!
A once crossed path.
Head to head with my demons wrath.
Cry and beg for your life to turn around.
I can't hear your pitiful pleas, there is nothing, no sound.
Standing above you now hovering tall.
Turning around to detach your head,
Blood splats covering the once white walls.
.
.
.
Forget forgiveness!
.
.
.
You are already dead!
.
.
.
And I,
.
.
.
HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!
.
.
.
I WILL ALWAYS BE HERE.