Safe poets who write their lives away never once getting to the source of what it means to be alive. We were made to suffer, and yet they act as if the poetry of our souls were second best to second rate stories involving characters with less flesh on them than some dumb fuck parading on a catwalk. Such a waste of words. Such a mess of misguided intentions. If you’re going to speak, speak because you want to fuck the brains out of all those reading what you say, not because you want to politely tickle their bits and put a smile on their face. Speak because you want to be their everything, not just some tepid teatime read. Open your mouth and let me sick my disease right down your throat. Succumb to my ill intentions and let me flourish when others wished only to see me stood in line waiting for the end. If you clench your teeth and thrust your hips against mine, we can taste pleasures the likes of which the rest can only dream of. If you say what you feel inside and don’t care if people will be offended, then your days of living in fear are over. So be someone, and do it the way it should be done. There’s no time for wasting time, so be a woman, be a man. Rush through the forest and fling your body into the waters of nature’s womb. Swim into the heart of what we are and flower until your greed for notoriety devours all. No more safe poets, and no more pleasantries, just bullets in the gun of God and enough devotion to strangle the life out of anyone that dares stand in your way.
Author S. K. Nicholas 
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