Turnin' and Burnin'

Turning to burning and discoursing, even, discussing,
You become a weakened sum, a hoary broken drum,
Something to be burned, young eyes turned, never referred to.

Slits more impoverished, saggy tits, soul but pieces left from his drill bits;
Much like my heart, fallen wayside off the cart, a target for your game, your dart.
Torn asunder, great heavens! Thunder. This whole thing was just a blunder, you say.

I can’t believe you. I wouldn’t leave you. I guess I was just your old peeve.
Now, just a hen thrown aside. I can’t believe we both lied. At least I confessed. I’m not dead.
You never did. I would have forgiven, love isn’t something severed easily, rightly.

But according to you, resorting to your disconcerted heart, affording to your ‘dismal plight,’
It was all just a highschool romance, a pre-forgiven lost chance, a shattering lance;
All it was, was just a passing news’ buzz... an experience strictly for learning, like nothing else does?

I would put an ancient sword through your spinal cord, make you stiff as a board,
If it would satisfy me. But it won’t. So I won’t. I can’t believe, I can’t believe I don’t.
I wish severing those fingers I kissed, sweet gingers, would save my swinger’s soul.

I can’t fight you, it wouldn’t bring my heart back to light, life, you took too big of a bite,
You selfish bitch. I can’t let my self become the letch. I can’t drown down in the ditch,
Little Miss Rich, Nor give you the dittle, each little sweet skittle, the long singing fiddle.

I must pronounce your true trounce to the world. You are not simply a pretty flounce.
You had been good your entire life. You, perfect, we all understood, we never could be.
You filled the position. Now, world, listen. Quit pissen. She fucked up, but won’t admit.

Always been good. Always will be righteous? Sometimes, you have to remove the hood
To see what went wrong, the fucking cunt; it isn’t a hard hunt. Let’s be blunt… the fuck
Up is me. She steered herself wrong by me, leered away from red-head friends. Feared

Nothing, did she. Now she worries about me, will I say something? What will be my fee?
Nothing but realization of sadness. Information is insurance. Knowledge is my sensation.
She really is the slut, tyranny now. Feelin me? Hearin me? Therapy is what she needs.

She needs me to call her out. To haul her heart out. I will never bawl again. I hope
She burns well, when she gets to hell. I can’t contain my silent self anymore, I must tell.
I have changed in the process, of her digress. But I am no less, and she ought to confess.

I hope life passes, silently, brutally, by her. Triumphantly, I rest inside myself, definedly.
Staggered process, in-daggered bodies, endangered lost souls. She, mangered into her age.
Glass encrusted eyeballs, trusted sensual knives, pins under busted nails, in lusted breasts.

She will digress. She will explain away. We could waste all day. Please, don’t spray.
In the end, I hope, we get what we wish. At least, what we deserve. I don’t even want a dish.
She wants, I guess, to cover up that ‘god-damn lover.’ Well, smother her mouth!Her dessert.

I know she’ll parish one day, cold, and cherish the day she only had a little remorse.
I hope that day comes after next age, the unbroken stage of time, so she will feel her cage,
Her self derived forked spade in her hived forehead. On that day, I would take her Bread from

her mouth. I’d say: sorry, but it happened. Shed two tears, one for the world, one for the world after this, her’s. Silently, after she passes away, already dead, I go my way, and live to write another day, another tale, another season of the life of the world, I’ll have my say. I try to not

think of the burning face, the distraught limbs, the discolored eyes, the fraughtful mind, the shortened gate, all… all burning in hell. Her consumed in hell. But when I do think of it, I smile. I smile toothily,like a sacred old man,who has lost his wits,his passion for ahigher cause.