In my mind's repertoire of darkness with a catheter and piss-pot and my dear old auntie's etcetera strychnine that could kill a horse a collection of poetic literature from my inkwell and thesaurus collaborating with a dark angel in an autonomous zone in Seattle with 911 tattooed on her tits in my mind's repertoire of darkness and my dear old auntie's etcetera
I stayed up all night listening to how your free trial on love expired, spiritually and emotionally drained I heard the words come from your lips exhausted saying you were tired.
Labeled yourself as damaged goods, packed up feelings and boxed emotions allowing people to toss you around disregarding your fragile heart, pride creating lost translations, tears fall from your brown cheeks after every conversation and you still think about her.
Wrapped inside of her stagnant frequency while you submissively open yourself to exchange energy, falling for her poison unaware...
Take off your clothes Or Iíll rip them off You choose... Like I was given a choice. My consent wasnít acknowledge I didnít matter to them now My body did He kept pushing it in ďOh, hey guys, sheís a redĒ Amidst this evil They laughed.
"Stop!" "Get off me!" "Please!" All these pleas and more fell on deaf ears. You know that pouring water on a rock thing? Yeah. This was it.
They raped me. In turnsÖ
And itís not my body alone It was... My mind. Shattered ...
Claiming you tote tools, why you mad cappin'? I'ma show up at your wedding where I'll catch you lackin'. Get your bride shot, and I'll be glad it happened. I'll murder you pussies like a Bad Dragon. Cut your ring finger off, put it in a napkin. Throw it in a box, then I'll gift-wrap it. Drop it at your mom's house, then I leave laughin'. And I'll think about my actions when I'm home fappin'.
Whether itís my blood glistening on the street, Or a knee dug into me, My life doesnít matter, My skin color is still considered a crime, And now here we are again protesting for oneís life, Another brother who could not breathe, Leaving our community to suffer and grieve, While so called heroes continue to kill in groups of 3, maybe 4, 5, or 9? It took flames to become louder than our screams, I think you would light a match too, These fires have now become our voices, This could be my brother, my mother, or a cousin,