It is not with glee that I

bemoan the fellows who have chosen

the route of illegality to ease their

suffering. Rather they peeve my

beliefs of utmost love and joy.

I am irked by their joy, the joy

of a poltergeist smoking a cigarette.

They want to die slowly and feel

no pain in between. They yearn

to strip themselves

Of the title I have chosen to

laureate them with. I

see them as a face of mottles. Their

fingernails like mine only because they

have been chewed down to the core

Of their flesh, their greened blood.

If they could breathe they would

reek of urine. The dehydrated brute

who thought it best to hew

my heart until I forgot to whom it

Belonged to. A pretty cardinal

woman or You? You, who I

am scared of Your name and Your urgent

tug, plucking strands of hair from my

skull. You always wanted to segregate

My sober mind from the slurring