Balance Sheet
The bounds of convention
so hated
Detestable rules for the
frightened gated
Denying their humanness
through their frigidness
Concentration on
production like a virus on steroids
Boring is their solitude
and smugness the comfort within
Endless sameness until
death sets in
Soulless existence without
the artistic
Their grinding grim
grin-less silence is an offense to the autistic
Hatred they deserve served
with the pleasure of an orgasm
Disrupting their
triumphant satisfaction built on nothing
Nature’s way of not
frightening the species in its pointless quest
So they invented reasons
why existence is a divinity’s behest
Now fat frightened
overprotected progeny jump at shadows
Their son’s obsessive
ticks with the tongues of bitches
Daughters without
self-esteem scared witless
And without all around the
savages gather in suicide
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