- Non-Erotic Poetry
- Miserable Fucking Liars
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I’m surrounded by liars.
Pretenders.
Fakes.
I have no interest in them.
No desire to play along.
No patience.
None.
Everyone. Everyone.
Can kindly carry on without me.
They insult me constantly.
Their presence is an intrusion.
A violation. A weapon. A curse.
I don’t recall granting permission.
Allowing access.
Giving consent.
Was I not sufficiently raped already?
Not yet adequately impaired?
Not quite broken enough?
Fuck you. And you.
And all of you.
Who do you think you are?
You disgust me.
Repel me.
Make me furious. Irate. Violent.
By what authority do you feel justified,
Scrutinizing, explaining, manipulating,
every part of me?
Evil fucking mob.
Trolls. You were not invited.
You’re not wanted. Not welcome.
You may all go fuck yourselves.
And each other. In the ass.
With a filthy-dirty wooden bat.
Not multiple bats.
But, a single bat.
You’ll need to share it.
Consider that your top priority.
Do it first. Do it twice.
Do it now.
I hate you deeply.
Want you blinded.
Silenced. Fucked.
Monsters.
Parasites.
Roaches.
Snakes.
Go away. Get lost.
Leave me alone.
I prefer my privacy.
My certainty.
My self.
I’m not sure of much.
But, I’m sure of my position on that.
Miserable fucking stalkers.
You can bathe in battery acid.
Then set yourselves on fire.
Arrogant fucking assholes.
Consider that your next priority.
Do it second. Do it now.
Do it again and again.
Do it until you finally feel.
Some. Goddamn. Mother. Fucking.
Remorse. Humility. Shame.
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