I’m tired of you
you who listen with mouths
and scream with ears
waiting to hear
about the next thing I fuck,
or fuck up.
I grow weary of you
you who acts ten feet tall
when you stand at a mere three
feet
and get up at a sad three
inches.
Since when was it
something to be proud of
when she claimed you were the only
only one
only one she could fit in her fucking whore mouth.
Fucking whore mouth. That’s what you do right?
Best stay in that alley anyways
since her pussy is as loose as
theatre curtains by the time the audience stands
for that encore.
But don’t expect it,
because they’re looking for
something more.
Not some dried-up pussy fest.
I applaud you
you who got away
with mailing black letters
and swinging salami,
like it was lunch time in Italy.
Fuck you.
ew, on second thought I take that back.
I’d have more fun fucking a hot dog,
because those taste better than salami anyways.
But who would catch the difference anyways?
When the amount of intellectuality that you carry
equivocates to the very meat that hangs between your scrawny ass legs.
We’ve got a sale folks
just make sure you get this old shit out of my face
before I puke.
I abhor you
you who I have no words for
yet also every word I can think of
I humor you
you whom I know every weakness
from pregnancy
to ell oh vee ee
to lost chess games
to lost futures.
I don’t care for you
I almost did, once,
but I figured I’ll be just remain content,
if you answered my single curiosity:
When is that bastard child due?
Because I’ll be the first in line
to throw that motherfucker out the window.
Don’t worry though, from the looks of that c-section
you have a lot more coming
Bitch.
