Monday, 30 April 2012 02:50
This is a message that's privately public. If there's the slightest chance you're offended by profanity, please don't bother clicking "Read More," as what follows may be too vulgar for your senses. That said, bring on the poetry/freeform rant...
The war is on because you started it and I plan on finishing it. The game is over and the music has stopped and before you know it I'll be there, breathing down your neck and taking care of whatever business I have to. You've lost. You know it. You can't fucking win. You've undermined yourself at every last turn, and the Fat Man is about to drop like the proverbial mother-fucking bomb. You know who you are and what you have done and all the twists and all the turns and all the lies and all the burns and all the everything you've sown to reap and all treasures you just can't keep and all the hate and vitriol spewed and you just don't have a fucking clue it's over. I won. You know it's true. Yet you fight, 'cause you don't know what else to do. And all the king's horses and all the king's men won't dare fucking help you put this together again. You lost, you are lost and will never be found 'cause you're too fucking busy driving yourself in the ground with your fucking idiot-shovel, pushing dolt-dirt overhead as you lie in the sheets that you pissed on the bed, and you race to detract, and revision the past, and claim everyone culpable except your dumb ass. As you lie in deceit attempting to cast the righteous for heinous and pure for the ass, your colors shine through and continue to mass as a brown blob of hatred you continuously spew, and scream to the heavens until you turn blue. Keep going. Go further. You shine as you die. You've taught well the crocodile learning to cry. Your shed, vacant lost, and eternally dry, 'cause you know shit sans wings just cannot fly. With blood on your hands and lies on your lips your quips, though they drip, with hatred are quick to perish as sunlight shines as you sip from the chalice you bear from the throw from your hip. And maggots feast heartily from inside and out and wriggle and squirm and twist all about and suck up your soul and bring forth a drought of feeling and care and compassion and draw strength from your shit-stenched breath. Fuck you.
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