Blanket-fears
And that ill feeling creeps up the cochlear
Hit the 808 and please don’t acknowledge
I felt something real in me, once more.
This ill denial.
No need to run.
Just sit in silence.
And feel the hollow tube that chooses not to speak anymore.
Coughing up tumors for years.
The fat girl that ate a salad or nothing at all.
Just go back to fasting, while I’m at it.
I wish I could admit another nuisance into why I don’t understand myself.
Unnecessary sentiments.
There isn’t a handbook for this.
Even in my regret, and every suicide-attempt a sin.
An at-will choice to live devoid of life,
The pin my soul in every star immortalized,
Of my pain-of-vice+truth.
And devoid myself of stardust.
So the holy magdeleanine,
Can live on a forgotten memory.
A sore-site for christian-truths and I am the heretic woman
Lonely sitting in the corner.
Or on the floor,
Dressed as teenager, lying once more
To You!
Watch and surmise into foundation,
Infiltrate the community if there is no justice,
And Suicide-Prevention is the Advocacy
Of my role-of-worship.
Kill myself everyday,
And Magnum 49 I prey to rain.
And I can’t see it blind.
And it sits on my hip, every sway.
To another accord, a green pasture that doesn’t exist.
Until it’s arsenic and vilhimine.
For it is the Sin cast upon me in trespass,
That the evil-accord of Advocation
Is my temprest into a new-living
Of which-the means to bear,
Is not sought in faith nor sin or virtue.
Only the temporary crack of smile.
And every laugh,
Is a nitrous chelsea smile
To my Black Dahlia of detective-murder paronade.
Every investigation,
Wake up to abandon the soul,
Or resurface the scratch.
For I have been wronged!
And so it is sought in tradition.
Abandon all Hostility.
Justice for the found-freedom of benign family dialects.
Revenge is no treason in Vindication.
Only another fucking whisper to myself,
In all my anger.
I am enough.
And my sound, will creep upon smize of eyes.
Your prayer rejected and your claspes of hands cursed.
A Bad-Omen walking.
Of thea ptah of scripture and lore.
The yore is no yolk to a joke of lie.
I caught ya sinning with a grin.
Flying burrito shack, with a heart attack prescription.
Your ad-algorithm is mine.
Get out or Fly High.
Borderlands will not search you.
In all my sadness and a whiskey lullaby that was coerced to
Chestnut berry-shade gardenia Gin.
The water of the metal canteen broken at hip,
And shot with smithereens.
Your drugs do not poison me.
Crack the whip, and these wrists are centrifuge gates these days.
Deny Me or Kill-the-Ego.
I have no will to give me Justice.
For the Villian,
Is Fair.
Doom is Handmade.
And so are dumplings.
Get to checks.
The batter is still raw and the bland filling burnt.
You did this.
Throw it away.
Or startover.
You fucking culprit.
I will not hear you to repent in prayer.
Denied by Lan Popa.
Give into Mediocrity.
Then perhaps, you will understand the destiny of the Lamed.
B–side for Blamed.
Scapegoat Harpies.
I rather keep on creating.
That’s what Mother is for, these days.
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