No, really.
No more fiction.
I tied a noose with an extension chord;
I think it was in key of G.

So now you know me.
Slowly you learned.
But lonely.
I am
not really torn.
Formed for performance
and ashamed of its scorn.

Scorpion form -
stinging only at myself.
But I'm the serpect holder -
It's only for my health.

Laugh for me
and **** the ashes.
I'd rather gather them together
and pin them
on the helpless feathers
of birds that couldn't last the weather.

See what I'm saying?
Just delaying.
Just maintaining justice
just as long as it serves
its substance
against my ungrateful urn.

Switch it up a little.
I tell them a riddle.
What's black and blue
and cold as you?
Well, nothing but the piddle
of a drowned alcoholic
pissing on the sheets -
beat dead with braindead head
and a red set of teeth.

So now imagine,
if you don't,
a style conformed
purely in comfort
from a mouth of foam.
So when I'm going home,
I'll write this letter.
I imagine it stained red in blood and black ink -
only better.

Really expressing.
Keep the poets guessing.
The intellectuals questing on a pertinent joint of our lives
but at which point I'm just purely jesting.

This is my laughter (children).
The seizure comes after.
Blasting lines of incisions closed -
God doesn't know the final chapter.

It's written in ink,
gutteral stink,
the pain of throwing up lonely in shame in the sink.

Throats swelling -
there's no telling
how long I took for this verse
but it's perfectly compelling?

Right?
You're so up-tight.
So down on downers
and damned, dog,
that boy's alright!

But nothing's fine...

Oh, nevermind.
You'll find the time to read
when you find your steeds and leave your mind.

Not behind but beside you.
The loneliest ghost that can guide you.
Through a rhyme scheme so mean
than even your dreams will bide you.

So... (gasps for a breath)
**** both.
Ban me from both coasts.
Say I'm desensitized, insensitive,
to my abstraction raise a toast.
But really a piece of bread,
to represent the sad sponge in my head,
soaking up filth until the day it's dead.

**** **** **** **** **** me.
I'm banned.
It's not no-man's land
It's no man's land.
No owning or sewing.
No clothes.
Naked.
We'll bake in the son with our sons owing.

Another good work. Your creativity and expression amazes me.

Keep it up.

this is great

wonderful, descriptive lines here- I like.