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Dear Lord
I’m hitting the ball back,
And losing the game.
I’m getting inside her pants,
And sticking with virginity.
I’m rewriting the poem,
Hoping for poetry this time.
I’m giving the nigger back his cotton,
And telling him not to expect anything more.
He accepts,
Scared that expecting what is just,
Might be a bit racist.
I’m noticing my cousin’s ex’s
Lips still smell like her pussy.
I’m trying to forget
Why I would know the smell of her pussy:
But I wont let her forget.
I’m trying to remember the kid
Who took off his shirt for me;
When I was still young enough for him
To be an adult to me.
This time around I’d be molesting him.
I’m grabbing the scrotum,
To tease the testicles;
They’ll be ripped out soon enough.
And their fickle cells flee the captivity,
When pleasure gives them the chance,
Just to be forced into something,
Not so easily forgotten.
The tough guy is standing on his last leg,
And I figure mercy has run its course.
I’m taking compassion to new heights,
And hoping it will break its back on the fall.
I’m prepared to save it though,
Make it dependant on me,
Sadism needs that compassion.
The priest shakes his head,
Only forgetting our sins,
Enables us to do evil,
Dear Lord,
Please Forget.
