PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

I would ice a smile on my face and live in the war paint.

Fuck honesty.

This will make an amazing book.

The diary of anne frank.

Hypobeastial, inferno.

The clock stopped at 76. 16 years to long.

The world should have ended in 1997

because humanity was lost the minute man stood up straight.

Scriptual therapy. That's all this is.

Scriptual therapy for the godless.

Dead in a world of verse and grace and hymn.

Art is dead.

The brain killed it.

The brain is mush, mush. Whipped sweet potato.

My fingers feel like  psychos.

Fuck convention.

fuck the 21st century.

And fuck Ann coulter.

Every wooden creak.

Every crack, footstep,

sends my chest pounding,

my head drilling,

face flushing.

Art is dead.

The walls creak...

Ice slides down my bloated stomach.

My shoulders arch on the bed

neck protrudes backwards faux orgasm.

I cringe.

Time passes.

No ones at the door.

My head itches again, my fingers.