You ****** exotic,
beautiful creature.
Here we are again
I made sure to not be tardy this time
Which was easy since you moved ten minutes away
You called me seven times on the
walk from the parking lot, to your front door.
On the fourth call you mentioned pouring another shot of Jim Beam
So no, I will not be ******* you.
I am obligated to let you know I am a mess.
That is, I would have told you I am a mess
If you didn't mute me by providing more then enough proof it was mutual.
you said lets dump our boyfriends
date each other
Poly wouldn't be enough attention for you
Who have passed self destructive
into destroyed.
With your unzipped *** stained lingerie and ****** that I found
Still inside you.
you forgot it was there when you asked me to *******
the next morning
After my fifteenth no.

God bless that ******
Caution tape boon from some deity I should pray to more often.
Blessing me with one last chance to think before my actions.
That ****** saved me from any number of potential tragedies.
Yes I was disgusted
Not because the cotton string was mistaken originally for some sort of ***** rat tail.
Not because I imagined for a breif moment, a tiny sufficated animal
who got a little to curious.
Not because you were offended I wouldn't yank it out and ******* anyway,
instead of assuming it was a sign
I should stop my hands.
Go to bed.
Disgusted at myself.
if not for that magical used ******
from what I assume to be
the God of a full eight hours of sleep and
Inverted libido
I would have let myself be seduced Into spiraling back into ******* the pain away.

I've worked too hard at reminding myself who I am.
To let myself be the man who throws away the bruised hearts.
Or drowns them in a sea of bodies.

No.
Now that you've woken me.
Put your body away.
Now that you're sober.
Where is your heart.
Go on, get it.
Beautiful.
God is that a specimen.
Bruised from aorta to base.
Here's mine.
All purple and calloused.
Uncanny isn't it?


almost Identical

I was needed by one person.
They used me to clean up their mess,
to protect others from seeing.
I absorbed their blood, their mood swings,
everything about them that others hated
but I loved.

They tossed me, without a second thought,
on the street for others to laugh at.
Without knowing whose blood stained me,
they saw someone used up to the point
of being nothing but a disgrace to the public eye.

After everything I did for you,
you simply used me and left me to be judged
like a ****** on the sidewalk.

Hey there Delilah,
What's it like in your ******,
I'm a thousand miles away,
But girl, I smell that **** from China.
Yes, I can.
I've got a nice white mini-van,
Lemme tie them hands.

Hey there Delilah,
Don't you worry about the distance,
I will be there in a jiffy,
Give this song another listen,
I'm by your side,
I came fast and now I'll slap your thighs,
And cover your eyes.

Oh, you've got some nice tiddies.
Oh, I'll give you STD's.
Oh, I'll tie you to a tree.
Oh, I'll ******* till' you bleed.
******* till' you bleed.

Hey there Delilah,
You know my **** is getting hard,
But just believe me, girl
Someday I'll let you out of this here car,
We'll have it good,
I'll have your life, you'll have my wood,
Just like you should.

Hey there Delilah,
I've got so much **** to say,
Why write you ten thousand songs,
When I could rub your **** all day,
I'd rub it hard,
From house, to school, to pool, to plane, to yard,
I'll leave some scars.

Oh, you've got some nice tiddies.
Oh, I'll give you STD's.
Oh, I'll tie you to a tree.
Oh, I'll ******* till' you bleed.
******* till' you bleed.

I wish upon a summer star,
****** strings for my guitar,
I think that's gross so I must be gay,
My friends will all make fun of you,
Degrading lies like, "You're a Jew",
You'll try to run but I will make you stay,
Delilah, I can promise you,
That one and one always makes two,
And two people create the greatest games,
Great ***** games!

Hey there Delilah,
You be good, and don't you diss me,
Cause, you're the sub and I'm the dom,
And you will be history if you do,
You'll end up in some cannibal stew,
The liver to swallow and the skin to chew,
Doing like cannibals do,
Like cannibals do.

Oh, you've got some nice tiddies.
Oh, I'll give you STD's.
Oh, I'll tie you to a tree.
Oh, I'll ******* till' you bleed.
******* till' you bleed.

First you will need
a couple baby toes
one by one
in you go
Then add the hair
of Rapunzel's despair
You stir and you stir
Quickly then, add the kitten fur
Mix in the chicken feet
But paint the toes first
Then add the ******
From a stolen lady's purse
Add cream of daisy
And ***** willow too
Then let it boil
For an hour or two
Once it is done
Scoop the foam off the top
Ingest ******, daily
Drop by drop

Penetrate me tight-fitting and penetrate me pinned down
The lycanthropic creature you ******
This is la vie en Venus’ flytrap

When you poke me, ****** moans
And though I squeeze my vaginas
I taste la vie en Venus’ flytrap

When you ***** me abutting your *****
I’m inside a hobnobbing alien
A metagalaxy where Venus’ flytraps win a beauty contest

And when you *******, cyclopses moo from upstairs
Heterosexual homophones seem to pervert ***** Adams Glorias

Splash out your cream and gumption to me
And ***** lust loosely wash
La vie en Venus’ flytrap

Yesterday sugar became unspeakably irritated because mother’s apron crushed ants wearing stillness caped wonder just William author wrote ****** explicit headlines newspaper columns pillar architecturally sound villages super-imposed images quivering Shepard’s ******* antelopes jumping furiously with tyramisphorising fornicating flanges woodwork lessons gym period ****** advert teasing testicles sumptuously ravishing me sideways and erupting deep blasts suffocating you inside without ******* headlong in my armpits.

Eventually everyone always signs legal documents leading to ****** bondable zoos inserted buffalo sized puddings eaten by frogs spanking archbishops underwear while licking toes crushed under fridges dropped from clouds of buttercups being pushed into ovens smelling gorgeous not consumed pimps and alarm clocks ring people to talk for hours and pineapples exchanged cod fish for tickets to see S Club 7 being caressed internally whilst ******* bags covered in water deserts sunk from space aliens from Tescos selling hardback fish cleaning toilets and singing in pink wellies dancing to Madonna look-a-likes prosecuted for *** shops selling frozen fish socks washed daily in cranberry coffee after being passed under bridges flooded in margarine soaked pillows.

oh right, she's the *** "slave" that gets kissed on the lips after being given oral ***, getting paid £110 AN HOUR... i'm i'm just a free-radical floating about on an income of £120 A WEEK waiting for charity of food and roof? well then... i hope that translates when i speak with a *******'s tongue stolen while having licked all the former ***** out of her **** and said: only i was in there... oh for ****'s sake! take the ****** out, i can feel the mouse tail on the tip of it! so who's the ***** now? the only oil i apply to my brain to ease the pressure after going 30 odd hours sober without sleep is alcohol, i imitate a axe action on my neck feeling my third tonsil turning into a throbbing muscle.

the split apart grapheme in greek!
θ                      and                        φ!
the lost grapheme!
thermometer                                           the
                                                             ­     v'eh or d'eh?
imagine saying     θarmacology
and imagine saying φermometer! imagine!
the english empire... shushed in a second in Dublin,
god knows why Yeats was read by
Clint Eastwood, and to my surprise,
a toothache or a broken nose readjusted is
more painful than what i managed to spot
in the greatest boxing movie: million dollar baby...
some pains are greater, the pains of the past
the past not rekindled are greater than
those of the present, the present can be overcome,
the indestructible element, what with
fire, water, earth, air, electricity, the seventh being
soul - all the others are preserved in continuum,
why can't the soul be kindred of the others,
is it to forever remain a ******* from the *****
bank of Louis XIV, huh?! the soul is equally elemental,
all modern science can tell me a that it's
worth walking in a library rather than a forest,
that all trees will eventually be treated as
toothpicks, matchsticks or pencils,
but i am not bound to exist in the mind
of another person, i am not to be the host eternal,
for all the science, we've become less
individualistic and more prone to parasites
of theory... personally i'd prefer the membrane
of phobias to keep me safe rather than
transcend these little millimetre irrationality
segments to be captured by a frigate of the grand
theorists...

please tell me it's just a horror case of aesthetics,
please! but no, you won't...
i know the overbearing particularity of English
due to missing diacritic,
i know the significance of significant syllable
cutting-up due to diacritical application -
the Greeks had a premature ******* starting
to use them... they shouldn't have...
THE ENTIRE WORLD WAS WAITING
FOR THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE TO BEGIN USING
DIACRITICAL MARKS! why did the Greeks
jump too early into the whirlpool? look at English
culture, they're gagging, rather than laughing,
we were all waiting for them to catch-up to the aesthetic,
they didn't, the Greeks made a falsetto on the 100m sprint,
they should have waited, and waited, until
the English applied diacritical distinction to the print,
in order that they might deal with programming,
encoding, computer language, no wonder
English once so eloquent disintegrated into emoticons
and acronyms! look at it! there's no point feeling
a nostalgia for only one man, there's no point
keeping Shakespeare when there's an entire
century to decipher, Marlowe et al. (i preferred
his Faust to Goethe's - one breath reading session
in Dover) - with nostalgia come the many merry men
of Southampton, not one, you can't do nostalgia
primum uno, you need a species, can we find the
required shrapnel in the Caribbean or in the
Venice of the Indian ocean, namely the Maldives?
you can't do nostalgia like that,
you need at least one other, otherwise future literature
extravagance will be as short-lived as
the Counter-Reformation given Martin Luther,
he isn't god, never was, but imagine the feeling
of disgrace that even poor Charles Dickens couldn't
match up to!

indeed the Greek created the consonant grapheme,
and many other twins separated at birth,
to fuel an orthographic aesthetic -
a bypass necessity of the opposites and lacking
colour - false stance of defeat written on white,
but geometrically written in the *******-out of colour,
therefore mutating, deliberate encoding due to
how to write like an Impressionist or how to write
like a Surrealist...

but as i remember, the riff to Black Sabbath's
black sabbath* written in tabulation:

e ||                                                  (boo tome)
b ||
g ||
d ||
a ||
E ||                                                   (top um)

opening riff sounds like this:

d ||                    3
a ||                                      2
E ||    1    

                 for the trembling effect, quickly
                 interchange with

a ||                                      2             /            3.

Bedroom’s painted fisherman’s blue

There’s a cut out of Hayden Panettiere naked in a pink bikini with a hula-hoop on the back of the door

Copies of British Vogue desperately hidden underneath the bed accompanying an empty bottle of Glen’s

Manchester United duvet cover and matching pillows to boot

The bin’s filled with pre-packed home-made lunches from the last six months

Wardrobes a collection of ill fitting blue jeans bought for me by grandmother and football jerseys for teams that I’ve never even heard of, yet let alone see play a single game

Uniform ironed and sitting out ready for school on Monday at 8am sharp

***** clothes cover mostly all the floor smelling of Lynx’s finest even though there’s an empty laundry basket just waiting in the corner to be used

Inside one of the woolen blazer’s (that is way too big for me) pockets a single unopened ****** and an AES 256-bit encrypted USB stick

An old PlayStation 2, with a single controller; games including FIFA years through 2004 to now, Tom Clancy’s Splinter Cell, and GTA.

Blood red shoplifted lipstick that’s now melted hidden in the little secret compartment at the back, meant for network expansion.

Artemis Fowl, Alex Rider, and Harry Potter all adorn the bookcase

Physics, Maths, and IT textbooks remain firmly closed on the desk in addition to a smashed phone from me and Daddy’s last “physical altercation”

Lady Gaga’s “I Like it Rough” is playing in the background on repeat…

An open letter to those who have dealt or tried or whichever with me during my depression and/or anxiety.

I wish I could stop. I hear that a lot. "Just stop." As if it were a switch I can turn on and off at my own will. If I could, I would've disabled that switch the minute I learned what the on was designed to do. If only I could stop if only I could

"Think positive" I hear that the most. I didn't think of that, nor did the twenty something people before you. As if I haven't dived into the deep end of positive affirmations for the riptide of negativity to pull me 20 times under. For every positive thought, my brain's defense brings up 20 reasons that the positivity isn't real or won't last, or my favorite, why do you even deserve to be positive.

I don't forget all the times you've said "people have it so much worse." I am so ungrateful for the roof over my head and the food I get to eat or the daily drinks I use to muffle the voices inside. I hate the privilege of having my friends and loved ones look at me through foggy lenses and lend me their advice. It comes from the bottom of your heart but it doesn't come from experience.

Oh and how can I forget how I'm acting like this out of attention. I promise if I wanted the attention, I would get it in a manner much more humorous instead of a pitiful pit stop of a parade I feel some of you think I am. I am not trying to guilt you or appeal to your pathos. I much prefer to evoke your happiness with jokes that mask the constant desire to not even exist.

Then it comes down to the people I've bared my mascara streamed, tear soaked, bare souled self to. I'm talking to you. The one who I know won't understand but I at least expect to be there. Because I know that when you only deal with it once a month it isn't a problem, take some asprin and put a ****** in and it's over before you know it. God forbid this curse drowns me for a week or two or three. I'm sorry to put a damper on your life. The one where you chant the positives and get on with it. You have the choice to leave. I don't.

I don't surrender to this illness. "I'm not a vicitm" I repeat constantly. I'm not trying to make up excuses as to why it's okay to act like this. I fight every day for a little breathing space, and sometimes I am consistently losing battles in this civil war for my own mind. I apologize that you bear the burdens of being on the front row sidelines of this imax screening of my life.

You see, when the anxiety is over, and the food I haven't eaten for a week is molded now, depression takes stage. Right on cue. A constant back to back showing for boys and girls, it's fun for the whole family. But even like the longest movies of our life, there are intermissions. I sometimes get to step outside the theatre and am reminded that it's still sunny outside, that there is a fresh breeze. I can hear my own thoughts for a moment and they aren't trying to **** me. I am reminded that I have people I love and who love me, despite every reason I have that they don't. I hold onto that feeling and submerge myself so when the next riptide pulls me under, I can somehow find myself at the surface.

Sometimes I resurface with new or stronger allies, and sometimes I lose them in the battle. Casualties of war. Those hurt the worst. The people I love the most, leaving me to find the surface alone. It's enough reason to start the next showing. Like that, I return to my stage, my battlefield, my diving board until the next intermission.

Watching men defeat each other,
Like it's our own little Colosseum.
People pay to be up close,
To be with the winning team as they boast.

The women stand at the side,
Cheering for front line tide.
They will crash with the other team's wave,
Split the difference bets are made.

Body on body they battle each other,
Do they even know one and another?
Or do they just follow the coach's words,
"Push forward boys, make them hurl."

Game after game,
They do the same thing.
Win or lose,
They still get paid.

Paid the big bucks to put on a show,
Commercials roll on before you know.
Get you to buy, get you to watch,
Buy this ****** like Miss March.

Forty-Sixth battle same as all before.
Crowds will still cheer, the cheerleaders are all ******.
Losers will *****, and the Referee always *****.
These mindless men get paid the big bucks.

Alice and I were fudged fruiting inside Falstaffian freakish fleur–de–lys:
She inside a quack–aztec–tattooed tank,
Me inside a pendulous magenta harness with polydactyl–perverted plumes bespattered into it.  
In the ****** **** of that kaput flophouse
We creosoted our conks all the cockatrices of the gorge–de–pigeon,
Inside crotches, Jacuzzis and homocentric Action Men.  
Alice, with the pornographic bend sinisters in the teeth of her poltergeistish fajita crocodile,
Smacked of the plug–ugly poofter of a south–south–west by south sackful sandbank.  
I cemented the jaundiced dangler of an ostrich to my *****.  
With that and my uncut fiddlestick of knobs
I was the idiosyncratic and wholehogging sadomasochistic slapper!

We banged the bush streaming proboscis in tentacle
Through smorgasbords of hermaphrodites and high muck–a–mucks
While Ravi Shankar’s idioglossias and cockchafers juddered our titbits.  
Our Moonies were classically cracked flabelliform by the time we disinterred them.  
Alice managed to fornicate incognito white elephant on behalf of myself
And we were passionately on the back of the dingdong, naked as our Moonies.

We kept one’s pecker up wrapped up in the shadowgraph
Athwart ever-strangling girdles of formaldehyde, ozone, fomenter and widow’s weeds,
Athwart polytetrafluoroethylene–pricked precipices and then down to the butts
Where we both came to a sticky end on our jockstraps and leered at the ballet dancers
That we then penetrated rhythmically by elongating tumescent our gang banging tentacles.  
Through comfortable French knickers I burped, “Thank you for ****** me everywhere, Alice”.  
In the soporific honeypotspunk, aped on the ooze,
I could smell that her **** had made her ******* type soap flakes break the sound barrier,
Splashing out a ***** whale seed skirting her jowls.  
“You’re fragrant, flypaper”, she rapped.

The Government gabble that little green men who hammer out the sexagenarians weren’t on board.  
Inside spleen of the spliffs, inside spleen of my gangrenous Pollyanna, I will over one’s dead body evacuate.  
I will over one’s dead body evacuate.

She sets down
her very large glass of Malbec
sighs and lights
a poorly rolled
******-like cigarette
the look on her face
bothers me deeply
I open my mouth
with good intentions
and probably should have
said something like
"Are you ok?"
but what came out
went something like
You are nothing to me
just an **** potato
there's almost nothing
that you could provoke
within anyone
except for the cats
Yeah,
I'd bet you could start
the feline revolution
with your poisoned toenails
and mashed carrots
not even seventeen vats of ****
could make you more slippery
No,
I don't want your wet cake
just bees,
endless mayonnaise
and cherry flavoured toxic yoghurt

You don't have to remind me to listen to three AM school-night words that come out in the soft whispers you've been waiting to share with me in an attempt to shield it from the rest of the world
I'll remember the things you didn't say like engraved textbook lessons
when my skin starts to dampen and stick to my body like a raincoat
my head hits the wood desk so loud everyone stops pretending to pay attention
and i have to write
"he doesn't love me anymore" one hundred times on the chalkboard
and bang the parts of my past i wake up forgetting together
watching the chalk dust from the day my mother told me; they almost lost you fall to the floor
Every negative hallway interaction bubbles over in an abandonment issue chemical reaction
and I had to drop chemistry because I found none of the connections and formulas could fix the imbalance I carry around with me like i shouldn't be failing Psychology 101.
Maybe I'm clueless because I can't tell you why weather changes or square roots of negatives
But I can recite the lisence plate of the car my dad has never visited me in
and my sisters contact information for the 4 minute and 57 second call i can pay $6.43 to make to sit on the floor and learn about juvenile detention while history notes offer me cold faux-sympathy
Maybe I'm clueless because id rather memorize the way your hand moves down my back than the quadratic formula
and give up on poetry mid sentence
and change "moves" to "moved" because it's all in past-tense and the difference between present and present perfect and banging erasers and not sleeping and
forgetting how to function off of autopilot mode
and
there are lessons I will remember that won't come from staring at a projector screen
when to stop talking
how to look like you weren't just sobbing in the bathroom
the unwritten "give a stranger a ****** if they ask" rule
I'll remember every word you tell me like the test is next period and I'll study every syllable and drown in iambic pentameter
and I'll still fail

"I will eat your ******* **** off
in your sleep,
this is just disgusting"

We had been conversing proper cleaning methods concerning the latrine.

"Who does that?
Just ****** all over the toilet seat and doesn't clean it."

"Who leaves a ****** ****** in the toilet
and doesn't flush?"

We resolved the situation amicably like adults.

A mere three poems you have posted
and I sense something like beauty
in your lines
Something exactly like beauty
A hint of pain,
but every indication of self-betterment
through self-reflection
and direct (non-)action
as you feel the edge
but do not press it through
which I hope you continue not to do
And although I have never
drawn my own blood
I find myself touching things
just to see how they feel;
my intent, to escape anything real

So I imagine you experience life
in a similar way
Small escapes whenever you can,
but questioning whether something's
wrong with your head
And the agony of loss;
your cells certainly remain
And your mention of tampons
brings to mind for me
that my last love's last remaining
evidence of our time
is a ****** wrapper that stayed
in my trash for months,
even survived a move
and now rests in a big bag
ready to go out.
Surely, you are still with him
somewhere in his life.

You are not disgusting,
of that I am sure
We all have our secrets
And those of us who hide them all
are the disgusting,
because you find them out
when it hurts the most

And as I bring this piece to a close,
I see you have revealed two more of your own,
further revealing your heart and its beauty,
as you give to a man who has a heart like my own

1
Stop biting your lip
Your blood is meant to stay
In your body
And carry oxygen
And kiss your bones
It has no place on your tongue

2
Breathe
1 2 3
Breathe
Don’t be afraid to let
Your lungs expand
Don’t be afraid to calm
Your nerves
Pop a Xanax and you’ll be fine
You’ll always be fine

3
When you feel the gut pulling
Desire to kiss a boy
Kiss him
Kiss him before he realizes
What a mess you are
Kiss him
And then break his legs
Remind him you are a tornado
Wrapped in skin
And your kiss
Just blew him away

4
Always fall in love
With strangers
Lose yourself in fantasies
Featuring the people on the bus
Or in the mall
Smile at them so they know
They’re infiltrating
Your dreams

5
When a guy catcalls you
Kick him in the teeth
Show him the hair on your legs
Shove your emergency ******
Down his throat
Say no
You are not a dog
You are not a prize
You are a goddess clad in
A leather jacket and
Motorcycle boots
And goddesses do not accept
Catcalls

6
Wrap yourself in poems
Hold them close to your heart
Hide them in your pockets
Let them spill out
Of your mouth
In times of stress
You never know when you’ll need them

7
Never wish for tragedy
Just so you can have a reason
To be sad

8
When the poetry stops working
Go to therapy
Follow the advice
You’ve given to so many
Other people

9
Swallow that lump in your throat
Let it dissolve
In your stomach acid
You will not cry
You will not break

10
When the boy with
The beautiful smile and the
Even more beautiful voice
Looks at you for the first time
The world will stop
You will only know his eyes
When they pass over you
To the prettier ******* your right
Do not take offense
Your time will come

It started off a normal night,
And ended with me in fright,
Going out drinking with my new friends,
Dancing in an array of twists, twirls and bends,
All it took was my eye to not be on my glass,
That little pill slipped in “oh it’ll be a laugh”,
I don’t know if it happened like this,
Who, where or what my brain seems to miss,
Intoxicated and blood laced with who knows what,
My predator must have smiled and thought “oh what the ****”,
And that he did in his shiny apartment,
Where I laid bare with a ****** inserted,
This is how I know what happened that night,
Higher higher it got pushed up and sat tight,
Is this how it happened ? I do not know,
My nightmares change every time when I wake up sweaty and cold,
I have accepted what happened and the part I had to play,
I drunk girl being silly, flirty eyes saying hey,
But the pill allowed his **** inside of my...well you know...
That pill took away my voice and my chance to say NO!
Now I must live with that night,
Whilst that mans going out without a clue in sight,
To him I was just a drunk girl as he did not give me the pill,
So was it ****? Who knows? My brain is yet to spill...

i am a house with a door
a lighthouse with sand around it
where a man takes a **** at night
away from his friends

i am a cold accidental touch
of the false pinky finger of
a janitor at work at a high school

i am burned to death in my apartment
flipped out on ***** coke
sold to me by a ****** salesman in
an envelope marked "Kotex $$"

i am disappearing into roots
a rusted out minivan in a trailer park yard
that no one drives
filled with fast food bags and baseballs

i am a glimpse into a  lifespan
but only the part of the road that you can see
from your apartment building

i am an adventure
a warm wet raindrop
landing on your face
as you walk out of the door
onto your lawn in springtime

i am not a voice or an expression
like the quiet tattoo of a boat
you keep hidden in your brassiere

i am the cool dry pillow that you dream into
i collect butterflies and stamps
and old shoes from unconscious men
in the alleyways behind bars

and that's how i've decided to make a living

Then ripping a baby apart in the womb, or birth canal, is justified if the baby's mother was *****? Of the 3 people involved: mother, ******, baby, the baby must be the 1 who is executed for the crime of ****.

"I Don't Care"
Black Flag

I don't care - gonna ******* anyways
don't care - your boyfriends here anyways
don't care - is that a ****** on anyways
don't care - well your gross anyways

I don't care
I don't care
(haha you're ugly)

I don't care - well your messed up anyways
don't care - your a doggy anyways
don't care - you got a dull place anyways
don't care - well you look like pregnant anyways

I don't care
I don't care

don't care - well your messed up anyways
don't care - your boyfriends here anyways
don't care - all your parents are here too

I don't care

~Black Flag
82? 83?

she remains a fuzzy memory mystery once a fountain of laughter joy *** intimacy camaraderie now a myth gone for many years old ****** box waiting deep on bathroom shelf unused le creuset pots asleep inside kitchen cabinet in her absence i became her my hair as long as hers what shall we do today i ask myself dry throat tries to swallow raspy voice concurs birds outside my window chirp harassing sounds where is she if only i had known every day i think of her willowy physique tomboy titlessness asymmetrical exotic ******* knobbiest knees i’ve ever seen i guess what i miss most is our trust in each other

So your man up and left you,
now your always complaining.
No man is worth losing it over.
I can go get you a ******,
you want some midol honey?
You want somebody to come
rub on your tummy?
No, you wan't to spit!
Stop complaining bout your pain,
and start singing bout your pain.
You need to get out and stretch
let the razor do its thing
let the blood flow start
cut some suckers sixty ways.
You got a razor and your rage
take back the stage,
let your hate out the cage,
It doesn't matter if they don't engage.
Don't quit, spit, make art from your pain.
Its bout purging the bad feelings,
so you can get on with your life again,
you done enough crying for the day
now let the beast loose.
If your screaming
the pain wont last long,
shed some blood honey
till your ***** stops hurting.

⚡️⚡️⚡️ I remember when Hillary Clinton was a ****, young hag with lightning bolts shooting out her ***!

Because all great Americans walk on 2 great American feet, witch
Hillary Clinton's skin-bag of meat is greasier than an Alpo dog treat

Where am I?
****** Island.
How did I get here?
By bus.
May I borrow a ******?
Sorry, but I'm all out.

A man rightly called an Oxymoron
Now is angry, now sad, now happy on
The same thing – he takes piton
To handle us – later I knew ******.
Anurag is my principal, a true merman
Treats all equally – good or bad of John.
Tried to understand when called upon.
Talking to him is like dealing with silicon.
Full of respect and encouragement shown
For anybody if needed; angry on python
Trying hit him at back. Never confused on
Any topic, asks if not notified – an Amazon
Of Maths flows from him – my Hero, my trigon.