Raunchy Things are True to Form

Living fucking life

And fucking goddamn life

You hear it just so goddamn much

You want to spew your fill

I want to suck the marrow,

Blow it goddamn hard

Instead I find myself asleep,

Waking in my bed.

Now if we feel the fighting urge

To be a smaller person,

We do the fucking in our heads

Not feel the fucking feel.

My English professor said that the careful, diligent writer pursues poetry.  He finds its eloquent words disproportionately significant to, maybe, a short story or novel.  This prof also thinks, though, that there is only one dominant interpretation of Shakespeare.  I say?  Thanks for the A, and I'll see you in a day.

I've been poetic lately.  My shit started out shitty, and as time went forth and I got bored of the shit, I wrote noticeably less shitty.  However I surpassed the ideal "less shitty" and proceeded to write completely incomprehensable bullshit.  I yearn for the lesser of the shitty days, they were my best.

What I mean to say is, it's good to hear from you.  I'm not actually this profane little bitch-of-a-girl.  I take on the persona to fuel whatever needs to be ousted from my soul-thoughts.

PS:  I don't like this big, white background.  It daunts me.