Over 16,530,195 people are on fubar.
What are you waiting for?
Pass.
Whither.
Ache.
Like dry, thin strings snapping across cold clumsy fingers.
The lyre strings splitting flesh in wild retribution of the novice advance.
Another sale, another whore reborn
in the wet loose drip of mediocrity.
Trendsetters, jetsetters, fashionista glitterati.
You're just a cumstain on a billboard forced down to gag on a fat wad of cash and ephemeral recognition.
Fleeting looks, and softball tits the size shape and firmness of alien melons.
If you look closely you can still see the entry point.
Even the downward jag where you taxidermist re-applied the skin.
Still you make more than me in a coy bend-over and a faux-gasp on the red carpet
than I do in a lifetime of self-inflicted wounds and follicle dessimating grief.
Where's the justice? Where's the thought?
Where's the consideration for dinner first if the world is going to constantly remind me of such a reacharound.
Work is a four letter word
cash is a four letter word
fail is a four letter word.
So is love.
And in a way, you have it all
and I'm left with only the hard parts of that equation.
Is it self-imposed that I wasn't born with a pink sinkhole
the gateway to happiness is as simple as spreading your legs and spreading your wallet
if I had tits
would my work sell?
If I had thin shining gold hair, sugary lips, and scandalous hips
would the world float behind lovestruck and dreamy-eyed like a chuck jones drawing?
Life is a four letter word.
But only when you have to try.
