The Lemon-seller

Brazilian blow-out, bitch

45 minutes, to stomp you.

You and your cheap trash.

You got fucked, with your hymen intact.

Haha, so much for your party-planning.

Rained on your parade, did I?

I didn’t mean to, I just did my.

You’re a result of a bus collision,

You should be bludgeoned,

During an intervention.

The devil came to strike a deal,

Saw your soul and said no, thank you.

You ain’t going anywhere, losers,

You won’t even get new dentures.

That one is tapped out, burnt and drunk,

Find yourself a pimp and get on a bunk.

Mediocre pleasuring, that’s your style.

After two shots, you can’t go a mile.

Looked up your symptoms on WebMD,

Looks like you think too much of thee.

You got absolutely nothing on me, bitch!

Except that I am a wizard and you a witch.

If it were 1500s, they’d burn you brown,

You’d look shitty, even with your crown.

Gold-digging bitch, you didn’t dig very far,

Nobody’d give you a dime, even in hoe bazaar.

Slutty smouldering eyes, with lungs to match,

A starving hyena and leech won’t find you a catch.

Dunno where I am going with this, this infernal diss,

When you fuck a lemon-seller, you’d get strabismus.

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Ma

A mother,

Dangles her baby,

Saying, here, take it.

I love you more,

Than I love the baby.

And you still sneer,

And say, fuck off.

Once again, I hit refresh,

A million times a minute.

Once again, I check the dial tone,

A million times a minute.

Once again, I hope against hope,

A million times, I cry.

Once again, I pray,

A million times, to make it right.

Once again, my heart breaks,

A million little pieces scattered.

What is it called,

When the left side of the body,

Feels heavier and hurting,

Like someone smashed it with hammer?

What is it called,

When catatonia takes over,

A perfectly healthy body,

Like all the blood is drained out?

What is it called,

When the eyes go dry,

But there’s loud sobs,

Like a whale separated from it’s calf?

What is it called,

When you are in a crowd,

But are left alone crying,

Like a war torn border?

What is it called,

When the shoulders are slumped,

Walking in the rain

Like a wet pup looking for a home?

Cells

On a rainy, dark night,

A grave was dug.

The wet soil, fret with worms.

Worms waiting to feast on one.

The trees dripped with cold drops,

The empty hole in the ground, soft.

Not a sound, except the scythe,

The corpse turned from red to blue,

Waiting for it’s last avenue.

The bats chittered, smelling the death.

Rain poured, like the sky was torn.

The mud, the dust, the coffin,

Lay in wait to be put in place.

No people gathered, no tears shed.

Images and water, rose like a stench,

From the already deceased and unclaimed.