A greasy, sleazy swine,
Reeking of the putrid scent of hypocrisy,
Grunting and panting as it lazily waddles,
To its high throne built of false ideals and a fragile ego,
Obese from chomping down on all those clipped wings and stolen dreams,
Grimy hands that have cut so many fiery tongues,
Now rub against a phallus,
That demands chastity and devotion and loyalty and pleasure,
But returns none,
With a mouth filled with rotting teeth and saliva that it spits on all who don't agree with it,
With grimy feet that trample on anything that it cannot accept or understand,
Sitting amidst it's treasures of twisted rules and shallow religion and petty gods,
A pile of flesh who calls itself our saviour,
Who calls itself our liberator,
Who calls itself our owner,
Who calls itself our forever,
Who dictated our past,
Who believes it will shape our present and future,
A pile of flesh,
Who thinks it is a man.
- Your days are numbered
YOU ARE READING
Of Battered Hearts & Bitter Coffee
PoesíaEchoes from the murky depths of a dark, burning soul.
