I am precious,
I am rare,
I am intelligent
I am No one,
Nobody gives a fuck
Because independence is not in style
And I’m full of a little too much fight
Because you can not grip your hands around my wit
And no one can rub their dick in between my insight
So apparently I am useless.
And though this voice can bring a grown man to his knees
He is only concerned with what I can do on mine
so Fuck Him, Fuck Them, Fuck You!
Oh, I swear I faked it every single time
Because you will Never be big enough
Thick enough
Long enough
To reach My Heart!
You can not thrust hard enough to make my soul come
From beneath the walls of nights it built around itself,
Each one preceding the suns that I thought would never rise
And in the center of this dark, beneath screaming skies, It glows over an ocean of all the fears I cried,
and it shines and shines and shines for I, the poet, the poets
For the dreamers, for the silent streamers
That exploded when she sat down one night in front a notebook with a pen and her birthday finally came again.
She cried and shouted for the very first time on each page and spilled her blood into each word that she struggled to say,
Happy Birthday, Happy Birthday. She had been reborn, because she found out that there lies more deep inside her,
Than just a moist place for a man to keep his dick warm.


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