Torment.

The ouchie on my soul
is an obvious one.
Like the cinder
in an almost extinguished
fire
barely aglow
yet intense radient heat
makes it unable to touch,
this american fuckup...
Damaged beyond his years,
He rationalizes
the irrational thoughts
of a done with pain trabaduer.
The lyrical suicide
truly lyrical
as he pulls the cold heavy cartridge
into the slide..
point...
aim..
and with the liquid's splatter
upon paper
the tortured soul might know rest.
Yet,
this poet trudges on
with malcontent
at a situation
unavoidable.
Fuck it in the literal sense...
"FUCK IT!!!!"
SCREAMS THE AMERICAN FUCK UP!!!

Intricate B

https://m.facebook.com/profile.php?id=152062208329721&__user=653128682