So what is it that you want? More blood. More violence. More cum and cheep porn. More spread legs and fisting rubber hands? A dildo machine. There is no place to put all the rage anymore. How about I will knock on your door? Hide the children - you are going down. Freedom of expression. I am strangling my self with a charger wire. Stopped eating. In oramorph I trust.
Floating away on the stolen boat while watching the night consume it's passengers. Willingly and unwillingly swallowing it's children and digesting all that have been left out. In. On. Facing the undeniable distance and the upcoming end, we lay in beds still. Barely moving. Barely breathing. Barely dressed. Check the PULS! She is OUT! To many cigarettes and to little time. On the past and present continues. Where to punch the last button. What happens after you made your choice?
So freaks come out at night. Suffocated in their own filth and misery. To scared to fuck the street poles. You call me a freak? How forthcoming. Have you learned how to polish my shoes. Kneel! There is no way to engage in a conversation. Not interested in their "all too human" rubber bullshit. Anger is the language of the future. Not his to obtain. Have. Recycle. Woman is not suppose to have a voice. Not supposed to have a language. Not supposed to have a gender. Lay on your back and think of:
What do you have to offer? You hide and hide under your mask of perfection. Your tolerance. Your ignorance. Not theres to keep. If one is scared to handle the gun - swallow the fucking bullet. Pricks! Get your courage out of the bag. COME ON! What now? Did she offended you - while she spit out your essence. Are you hiding yet? Disgraceful fuck head. You are to violent they tell me. Blindness will save you! Open wider so one can spit on you. My tolerance level is not for one to measure.
...IF ONLY I HAD A GUN...
Good night children. Another fairytale next time,