As pained as we may be physically there is no greater hurt than a poet living in a poemless age

Can a she be a she without a he?
Can a stranger define sexuality?
Points and whispers are they all worth our while?
Or are days made simpler wearing denial?

Shadows of judgement cast an iron view,
Chatters and mutters of "look, is it true?"
Worries of being out or going in,
Knowing whether to cleanse or live in sin.

Underground parties let freedom rejoice,
Open your heart and give way to your voice.
Society judges all of the time,
But my sexuality will always be mine.

She's sick to her stomach of your ******* promises,
Of the nights you promised to bring happiness and brought pain.
She swallowed you up in the pit of her being
And you Gargled inside her making her spit and splutter,
She's in the gutter.
And while she's down you pump your poison through her veins with nothing to gain, numbing her brain.
Yet again, you mask the pain.