Can't remember much of what I wanted to say.
Cracked on the porch staring a stray kitten
in the eyes. It wouldn't approach me,
I didn't wanna go near it,
so we just stared.

To make this contract informal;
I'm sick of this planet.
****, it's hard to pity or feel sorry
for people who are just as weak
and pathetic as yourself.
It gets difficult to not just hate them
like you may glare at your reflection
with some type of spite.

They're all diseased and petty,
creatures too smart for their own bodies,
but trapped inside them, caged.
Arrogant, then desperate at their
squishy and feeble vessels,
trying to make meaning where there's vacancy.
Their own holes are full of tar
and dead things.
Their voids hold no "humanity".
Pure rot.

When I die I don't want to leave
a god ****** thing behind.
Not a smile, a foot print,
a handshake, or idea.
No fond memories.
I want this planet to
disassociate
with me as I have it.
The citizens of planet earth
can forget about me.
Should forget about me.

We can't just stare forever.

Do you also wince at the seeds of a watermelon
crawling there inside your mouth?
Do you also feel the bile inside begin swelling?
No way now it won't come out.

I eat only the ripest from the market
yet am forced to spit out with haste.
All the maggots and vermin seem to target
just the fruit I yearn to taste.

Life is a malicious prankster
and whatever grows are her tools.
If you're handed lemons, don't thank her-
for the only ones who take it are fools.

I lie here soaked in my own confusion

My mind seems at dismay searching for its conclusion

I wonder why decisions I've made have my life in disarray

As I search for myself those memories replay

The seeds I've planted I hope one day will grow bright

Although now I remember, these seeds were bought in spite

-Joseph B Schneider

Lost
Hurt
Broken and chained
When will this suffering end?
Will I ever be free of you and your spiteful love
or will we be forever friends?
I would choose otherwise
but this is the pain I grew to love.

High on the mountain, overlooking the valley,
the valley where I was born, is a wooden bench.
Standing to attention are the bottom of the deep V
are houses, all the same, all in a row.
From the bench the village can be watched
It's comings and goings, the neighbours gossiping
talking about nothing and everything.
Everyone is there down below,
John the butcher, Dai the milk, Mair the bread,
Oliver's shop, where anything and everything was for sale.
A picturesque Welsh valley, where everyone is actually
Psychotic, and where you'll never leave except in a coffin feet first.
Those of us that get out, stay out.
Old feuds still burn, families not talking,
not remembering how it started.
Chocolate box prettiness masks the tension,
the hate, the jealousies, the negativity held
in the ***** of the valley.
How green was my valley?
It wasn't green, it's colour was red, like a hell fire.
Oh, the trees were green, the mountain was glorious
but that valley was poison.