There's a part in my heart,
a little, tiny, minuscule part that knows
people as pathetic as you
abdicate your throne of entitled reputation.
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
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