Too many writers,

Too many fucking “writers,”

Tell me, when you use your head to think up some treacherous set for your dumb fucking poetry, do you think of the time you spent sat on an old carpet, dripping down the wall of a local crack den?

Fucking lie to me, and tell me, when you press your contented fingertips against your keys, and type some shit about overcoming tragedy, do you think about the time those hands were pressed against the now open throat of some kid at a party because he wanted to see how much it would bleed?

You’re fucking suburban,

And you’re a fucking embarassment,

I’d put a cigarette out on your iris if I could,

I’d watch your fucking pupil melt away, and as you drifted into blindness,

I’d watch you find something to write about.

Go outside,

Get the fuck out of my face.