Why, when I touch you, do you feel nothing?

and

Why, when I call your name, are you silent?

and

Why, when I bring out pictures, do you not look?

I know,

but I won’t believe it.

Cause they told me the medicines would work.

Here’s how hell happened,

hard headed hapless humans having had homes havocked, having had hearts hurtled, hence heads hurt-ridden 'hind hoddies have hidden

Individuals ingrained in -isms incorporated insidious indifference, innocence is illusion implicit illegal industry inevitably intrinsic,

is it over?

indeed it isn’t

Putting poor people past putrid prisons perhaps paying policemen produces profit, pompous power plainly prejudges politricks playing pity plunder

Hear the heckler’s hateful hoaxes hard to hope he heeds the homeless, hasn’t happened so have to hustle have to have it, hooks as hard as heroin-addicts

Overdosed on overly-verbose oxytocins obdurate oracles operate onward, ones own opinions overcome omens only offers ‘onesty occasionally ‘omage or ’onour

’Plaude the proud people protesting pillagery and pertain to philosophy of peaceful pugnacity, poignant poetry projected in pictures painted in public -parks -plots and parking places,

penned plainly

phuck phalsehoods and phight for the phuture

She had decided she liked the snow.

It did not have the treachery of sand, where it would suddenly blow up in your face.

No, most of the snow would lay still, even when the trees made loud creaking sounds. Also it tastes good, much like water in bottles. But, tomorrow, she will have fizzy drinks. She will be six years old, and everything will be good.

And the snow has a quiet colour. Dulling the noises of the past.

these walls

have echoes when

you’re not

around

so why then

my darling

this absence

of sound?

your words haunt

and play

but not

fair

not happily ever

after every

smile there’s a

tear

am I no longer

the one

you wed in your

palace?

and will the palace not

burn if you

leave me for

.. Alice?

you wonder now

darling

till midnight

strikes true

be honest

what’s really

the best here

for you?

just know

I

have seen her

and she will

not

fit any

of my shoes

on her little

foot

Pissing on Mephistopheles’ typewriter, I brought my own pen

Have the cartridge filled with the blood of dead Men

Never had the time for limbo, cause I never made friends

To heed my new enemy need, I had to raise old ones again

I have a cemetery appetite locked in my head

And I feed on the greed of the spenders who lend

I don’t swim, I walk hateful steps on the lakes of revenge

Now I’m here to see if I can actually bleed,

But first my words must cut all the throats in need,

Crying for help from the suicide trees

Then I spit on the concept of lies and deceit

I’m the one who cut out Judas’ own lips to gain control of the speech

And if the gates don’t open I’ll just break the chains

It think it's time I refill my ink now, from Lucifer's veins