Car Crash

"Yeah, egg him on in his torture, it's fun to watch, plus, it will make great art. Encourage him!"

God 

and the other dead poets 

are the only ones that get me

but God

is schismatic and undecided

about torture, pleasure, hope and despair 

and now the poison comes

it's an intense emotional hatred

if I were a poet, I'd call it a wet, black, blanket

and I would think the demons that cuddle me underneath it

are its bones 

and it's luck that turns you out

nothing more

the night we shared was embarrassing misandry and misogyny marrying in the back seat

the game is manufactured love
I could reach inside you and
show you your fervently
beating heart as long as I
hide my hand, don't show my cards

expel the ego that the baptist preaches as truth

arrogance is piety

pride is virtue

vanity is vanity

and you, don't have anything to offer other than a car crash

but, in the end, was avoiding it of any value?