Are We Running Before The Rise Of The Sun Woodstock

See this is what happens when you take drugs    
You began to misunderstand your purpose in life    
   
You are the navigator of a tarnished fate    
I do not fly the night skies on invisible brooms    
Begging for any of Yahweh’s creature to give me comfort    
Worshiping a deity that serves only dark    
You are what you think, and that makes you what you are    
A Lu-nactic Shebeast    
Then trying to find the source of light    
   
I have purpose and worth    
The difference between you and me Stinkella Drug Addict missing from Woodstock    
You are well into your sixties    
Way beyond menopause    
   
Your life has passed you by, not so pretty to write about    
Or brag to your dear abandoning mommy about    
   
You have cursed God, then ask for him to hear your silent cries    
Feen, craved, obsessed about a poet, who will always have my most utter respect as any poet my path may encounter    
But no, you have incorporated this site as you own personal domain    
Impregnated your dim-witted mind with ideals of a false family on a social site    
A false husband    
That is a mental sickness    
Then you have the audacity to begin to rant    
   
And for what for Stinkella    
For poets who are universal, freedom in their movement of alluring speech,    
It is what keeps us poetesses blushing, young in mind, softly wondering    
And that is the pedigree of every man    
Woo them and swoon them    
   
But no, a Woodstock Drug Addict and Stinkella, twin headless runny pus filled cunt Jinns    
What, your old ass must think you got some type of magic hot pussy down there    
Look around, and get in line Shebeast    
   
And now you are running to get back home to Hades    
Are you not happy in your darken realm    
How many men with that smoking trifling snakehole you possess, you tried to drag down to Hell    
You will never ascend, read your Bible    
Your temple is cursed from the remnants of your mother’s non-stability pact with her dark festering demonic spirits    
She left you on a playground, how cruel is that    
   
had she been a real present mother to you, fate may have been different for you    
had you not been an inbreed, a sin, your destiny would not have been altered    
   
But here you are, a recipient of your Family Tree    
A totally fucked up individual    
You may what to change those smelling clothes from the sixties, Woodstock Addict    
Those amulets around your neck, ain’t helping your spirituality    
   
   
Sad puppy..