It comes, a great relief. I wont even miss your face, for it is nowhere in my mind. It has been erased, replaced by something kind. Here. Take, and keep the key. I wont knock upon your door.
I don't need to anymore. Your approval has no worth. Where I walk is mine. What I see, need not be shared. Who I love or why, is privately adored...in our own way.
I don't need minder's there, or blinder's on, nor lies or endless heaps of cash...to give me clout, or hippocritic sanctimony, telling me in two lines, what the worlds about. You didn't make the god damn thing.
You just wasted it, as if to say...there's plenty more, where this came from...and smile the fool's on, with that shit eating grin on your cretinous face...you slippery thing.
I found out, how to love myself and hold myself, and cry alone...to fill the oceans of this fickle world, with salt, while you kick back...flick'n buggers, thinking no one knows...playing with your twat.
I learned, how to be at home with my own soul, to do my own thing...with no hope, zero dope, laughing at myself, rolling on the floor with the only friend I've got, reading and re-reading what I wrote.
God know's...not bad for a duck plucker.
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico
Art: google art
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