Thursday, October 6, 2011

mornings: a poem

O morn
Thy filled with Scorn
You fight my joy!
Pulling me into the fog with
Your Sleep

O morn
Thy are a BUTTCAKE
With an UGLY FACE
and a
FAT ASS.

O morn!

go f*cking die.

1 comment:

  1. AnonymousOctober 6, 2011 at 6:16 PM

    O Sam,
    A poem to thee,
    I wake up every morning
    at quarter after three.
    It's worse than this poem.
    Sincerely,
    Spencer

    ReplyDelete

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