march 15, 2008
7:31 p.m.

beware the ides of march

fever, raging fever that's so distant
it shivers and stalls
and feels like eternal quiet
like a fucking burial in time
that leaves me shaking,
and i hate this
all the
jittery emptiness
while fucking with my
breaking
angel, my...
my
bitter savior, who's locked away in the sad little chains of his own
heart.
father - hear me,
how
if the hurting doesn't stop tonight, if
bloody
tears fall from his innocent eyes,
the
victorious murder (of you, monstrous bastard) will become just the
taste in my mouth, will be
resolution to the your ferocious questions, the too-often repeated, "what will you do now, you fag, you queer?
at the end of the day, when
will you decide to let the disgusting boy go?"
all i can do is sink into him, my lovely, freed angel and dwell in blissful ignorance.
/...i think you'll find an answer as i kiss his salty wounds of your lies./
(may you rot in ageless, awful hell as you ponder the hatred that brought your demise.)

author's note: ramblings written under the delusional direction of fever always result in the most passionate pieces of shit, don't they? this poem confuses me more than i ever thought possible. but i'm so tired of making sense. i'm always tired lately. and i don't want flames. please, if this poem was meant to be perfect (or even comprehensible), i wouldn't have been writing it with a fever of 102. with that being said, ciao, my friends.