The suck poem

What if I were to say

You suck.

You really really

really

really

really

suck.

 

Would you be offended?

Would I be lying?

 

Take a look at your life

a good long look

not a nod, not a glance

shove your face in it

and take a deep breath.

 

Does it smell good?

Do you like what you see?

When was the last time

you set a goal for yourself?

Set one,

and actually achieve it.

Can’t remember?

Do you know why?

I do.

Because you never did.

 

But hey,

I understand

Life is hard

You know you can do it

if you set our mind to it.

All you need is a chance.

 

Let me be

the voice of reason and say

YOU’RE WRONG! Life is easy, YOU SUCK! Set your mind to it? Bitch, if minds were paint you wouldn’t have enough to make a single hair change color. Give you a chance?! You were given all the chances in the world and you fucked it all up! Instead of working hard and staying in school, you did drugs and went to parties and fucked a shit load of women (real or not). You drank until the liver of the guy next to you failed. You smoked in back alleys while I stayed shut up in the library, reading until the blood I was crying turned black and wrote until they sewed my hand back on five times. It was hell, I hated it so much I offered to eat back all the vomit I puked out doing it but I made it, even though all I got back was a useless number on a piece of piss yellow tissue paper. I’m living the highlights of my life, no regrets, and you calling me conceited for looking down on you in the gutter feeding on waste, paper bins, dumpster diving for a living. We had an equal chance and dude don’t tell me about finance. I knew people everyday who made something out of their lives, to make it better. They didn’t get rich but they got the ball rolling for their kids and that’s all that matters. Unless they royally fuck up and start bingeing on the good life.

Bleeding all their money dry just to impress the faggots at the side street, the high street, even sesame street. He’ll be banking on his charm and his looks (even though he has none). Then he’ll get in the wrong crowd. Smoke his lungs black, then belch it on the sucker next to him. Drink until his blood’s mostly alcohol. Then toss everything that’s left for a gram or two of ecstasy at the embassy.

Soon he’ll have nothing to his name, and his hardworking parents will be long gone to the grave. Then he’ll be pissing on walls and shitting on sidewalks, swimming in trash, sleeping on last week’s vomit; hell, he’ll be lucky if a dog gives him any good loving.

This story remind you of anyone yet? Yeah, it’s you mofo, better believe it. If I talk down to you, you deserve every bleeding second of it. The only thing I’m sorry about right now is you’ll never get to read it coz a.) you’re either dead or b.) you’re too busy humping a hole in the ground until you pass out from ants biting on the length of your penis.

I write these words today to express my spite

not to malign or make fun of your plight.

I don’t care if people curse and cause me to be hated

I just hate the sight of an opportunity wasted.

(Rhyming FTW!!)