MARROW MAGAZINE

There is no room in hell, 

Yet sadness is inevitable. 

I’ll grief over a magazine, over a loss, over nothing, 

But I am welcome to stay here on Earth. 

You can’t match my prose with a fat woman’s body, 

Neither can you match it with a dyke’s gaze;

Strict and prompted I lay to this craft and

before the nights final lay,

Judge my work 

Kill it with all of the ways your mind couldn’t

But when I am rich and evil and full of myself,

I'll destroy your stupid magazine and flood it with evil things

And watch you bathe and loathe your mistake. 

Loving pigs,

With your vaginas and ill-will

I can’t wait to get my ten dollars back.

-

Poetry this,

Let me over explain that,

All things in life are fake and fat

So when you are raped and made a victim,

Your work never has shown

Anyone a glimpse into how much attention

You’ve never owned, 

Well isn’t this easy 

Rhyming away, 

Just as you let the fast food

Guide your belly’s way

So do me a favor, 

End it so slim, 

Slide a gun under your chin

And let

Let nobody know.