There's a part in my heart,

a little, tiny, minuscule part that knows

people as pathetic as you

should rehabilitate,

contemplate,

abdicate your throne of entitled reputation.

You should.

With any hope in this world, you will.

I don't hope you burn in hell.

I want to watch you fall like a single, silent star

from your respectable constellation.

I want you to live as you are

and slowly, your irrevocable journey of hate,

and take and take and take,

I hope for no reprieve,

that you cling to your flimsy beliefs

and that a hundred teenager girls gather as an army

to the hatred of you.

I want you to live indoors, shackled by guilt.

I want rage to twist your smarmy face,

and for people to say;

"There goes the screw-up."

I hope you become healthy and old

and addled by your putrid goals,

and that the world passes on without a doubt to

How insignificant you are,

How unlovable you are,

And you die like that.

And if not,

I hope your phallus falls off.

It seems like a fitting punishment.

Gods all filled believers

answers overflow them

avoiding chasm empty

where no proofs live their non existence

Birth, life, death

all proofs

asphyxiating us along

long longing longevity

pushing, rushing, shoving, tearing, bumping,

chasming, nothinging, voiding, emptying, de-being it

not answering, talking, responding, receiving, replying

Answers widowed of proofs

proofs dead wives of answers

only the chasm

is

waiting