EVERY NIGHT I SPIT A BIT

what I care about poetry

there is no time left
for us to write
there are blades they cut heads out at sight
if we deny our right
if we try and remember
pain for denial
if they stop this non-sense and smile
we’ll always regret
the night and day
and sit down as masters of a slave
writing and screaming mad and vicious
fulfilled with desire
we trigger the heart for a bullet to come
and wave distinctly for someday out left
where to belong