I. She has no God. She has no home.

II. What does it matter if I write?

it’s to set me free darling~

III. She walks around with a scarlet letter. She wears a helmet of worms and fire that terrorize her from the neck up.

She moves. She grooves.

She embraces her label. They find new ways to cut the air she breathes. She stops breathing—they pump her corpse with old lovers. & We all know:

loves never dies so it does tortures the soul.

IV. Sell the soul.

V. As long as she is bound to flesh, there's war

VI. God/goodness is certainly a myth. The world exist solely as a product of evil and wrongdoings. Religion is a trap for ones wishful enough to look to the sky, and foolish enough to live by book.

People are powerful. People are our reality.

VII. The Untold Story

because [What do men know?] I say that with grace because their strength is not in the intuition like woman’s. My tongue stabs a “socially conscious” society. I want to say forgive me, but there’s more important things to say—

—she only sings, just love me foolish little girl.

Blood red, blood rich.

A few moments later, 911 happens. The war is spiritual. The war is always spiritual.

Daughter oblivious

& the rest of the world plays slip & slide—

VIII. Unfortunately, love awakens. & It did just that 16 years later.

XII. What does it mean to be a woman?

It means to go mad at some point and to find a new balance in it.

XIV. I cry. I agone at the pain in my suckle. I agone…it hurts hard.

XV. I bleed tears from my heart. I explode through my pores. No, not lost. Just no love. Not loved. Jason. My brain bust. Di—The vault of my dreams were unlocked. Anthony. I cry. Anthony. I weep. Anthony. I love.

XVI.

When it comes down to it, she’s spotless. Christopher holds her notes. /

She halts vicious waves of the sea into order and silence. Ty’Jon. Boateng. I am as subtle as pop rocks; my back rips easy like paper. I fall, religiously. There is no longer enough lessons to justify my pain. I turn the belief switch off. I am as subtle as pop rocks; I burst on paper. Quan. Dillon. Too many pins and needles to last a lifetime. She’s alive, and filled with holes. When it comes down to it, she’s burning.

Brent. Meek.

XVII. BETWEEN THE GRASS—BEHIND THE HUTHOUSE—IN THE GREY SPLATTERED ROOM

It left me hunched over and unconscious for 15 minutes.

I had to die to gain stability—

to go back to the city.

XVIII. WELCOME TO NEW YORK—

Rockstar, a motherless man, sucks the life out of my notebooks. Bitterness is the strength of his sweet, frail chest.

TAM.

“America. Says they want someone to love. But they want someone to hate. & They want it easy.”

& it’s the woman that bares the cross. jesus.

XIX. I HAVE NOTHING TO APOLOGIZE FOR

I am woman and only woman. Let my silence fly with the turtledoves~

XXI.

I can teach you how to heal me.

Society's dirty again—it crawls in her panties.

The con of dying—deadness is easy to manipulate.

XXII. ROBERT

I want to talk less

of love or what it does

but I’m a poet. candor

is the only thing left

dripping \

of this broken body.

& if a man

were to ever have me

slip through the

gears of his back

again, this time

I’ll simply be oil.

XXIII.

I relive the dead slaves of souls again—thanks to Control. Cut off my arms.

Eventually, we all die

& when the day comes, I’m a rubber slingshot going home. I wish you the worst or nonexistence. ciao!

XXIV. SKIPPUHR—

To be an artist at heart cannot be taught. It is a heartweight, a child, and at times, a shaggy head. Sure anyone can master a craft or work thousands of hours to boast in front of an audience. But to be a true artists means to work your heart from your head. A true artist gives endlessly

& when he’s not giving, he’s working for protection.

So, when I ask you: Do you call yourself an artist? And you know you exude destruction. Please understand you’re a con artist.