| » Poem: Its Sunday |
Its Sunday
written by Genocide Reaper08:18 AM 12/7/04| I have so many whores you'll never be able to count them all, this I know. Hear I go, stumping my toes, the pain lingers, I'll cut my chest with a knife. One for the glory, two for myself, another just for God fuck sake. Does this image place a picture? Do you know me! Can I help you, with the blame that you take! Its sunday and I'm wearing black, its sunday and I could careless, its sunday and I'm on my way. Its sunday time to fucking play! Its sunday these morbid prayers shall stay! Its sunday so you better shout! you better pray! These feelings go in and out. So many whores so many sins! I have so many answers, yet none cure the cancer, do you hear me singing in this terrible voice? Can you hear me in your dreams telling you either spread your legs, and those cheeks, make a choice! I'm not really picky, when it comes to a females cavity, just as long as I can get a hole or three sticky! It pleases me to fuck you, now you know me! Yeah, its Sunday, and all the cheering is crazy! Its fucking sunday, I stayed drunk on saturday, its sunday! fuck day! its sunday pray day! its sunday! rightiousness in sodomy! its sunday! this is me! |
All (c)Copyrights reserved by the Original Author.
Author's footnotes and comments on this Poem:
Nothing to say, except I want some comments.
[ View Genocide Reaper's Profile ] [ Go to the Poetry Portal ]
This Poem has been viewed 394 times
|
|
|
|
