In Utero
I ****ing hate myself and want to die.
In Utero, I deem inspiration,
but not sarcasm or imitation.
My anguish is authentic and a cry
for help, but why would people waste their time?
Not like their so-called justification
for concern is any indication
that they care enough to bawl, weep and cry.
Nobody will even care when I’m gone,
much less the violated deity.
For that, I am ungrateful and alone.
I scorned her body with a written piece.
A conclusion which should have been forgone.
Forgone like death, which should put me at ease.
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