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This diary entry is written by ‹Lifeless Baby›. ( View all entries )
 
Previous entry: Fuck Your Religion, I'm Damned Anyway in category Poems
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Five, Sex, Seven, EightCategory: Poems
Tuesday, 16 December 2014
02:33:07 PM (GMT)
One, two, three, four,
We're all dying and asking for more,
Five, sex, seven, eight,
We're all filthy, and dying in our pleasure.

She gives herself so freely,
Standing on the corner as men take her to the motel across the street,
Men who have wives or men on business,
Taking indulgence in a filthy cheap whore,
Getting pleasure from the deviant nature of the world.

He sits and watches them go by,
The little schoolgirls in their little school skirts,
Innocent little girls who are watched by filthy men,
Wanting to touch their soft skin and mar their innocent flesh.

She's waiting for him at home,
He'll come home high and angry,
She'll be a target for him,
She'll bleed on the floor and tell herself she feels alive.

He has nowhere to go, 
His parents called him a fag and kicked him out,
Sleeping in park benches, he cries himself to sleep,
A man comes and takes him home,
Molesting him against his will.

She seems to want it, walking around in clothing that isn't there,
They justify their actions by saying that dressing like a slut makes her one,
They take her to the back alley and use her like the slut,
They think she is.

His skin is scarred, none of is is soft and smooth,
One attempt after another, he's not good at anything,
Not even at ending his pain, a
He takes the gun and counts to three, he can't mess this up,
He'll show them he's good at something.

Her baby is growing inside her, but she's not proud,
The names are worse then when he's kicking the life inside her,
She'll give birth to death, 
It's happened before.

Filthy humans with filthy habits,
Wanting pleasure but not giving it,
We are all going to hell,
We are all damned.


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