Blank Page
Blank page,
stop staring at me
because I could tear the shit out of you.
I could crumple you up into a ball
and throw you off the top of the Empire State Building.
I could wipe my ass with you.
I could take a picture of my penis
stick it on you
and send it to my ex
with the caption
“I miss you - from Mr. Happy.”
I could chop you into confetti
and throw you into the sky with joy
when my divorce is finally fucking finalized.
I could write “I won’t fuck my friends anymore”
on you five hundred times.
Or I could just stare at you for an hour,
smoke a bowl,
and pass out on the couch.
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