Castrate the crayon
Stalking in the shadow of syllables
Drooling at the curves of translucent lines
Slipping your warped finger under the hem of stanza
You transverberate through every victims creation
And the tight fit of their text
Makes you hold your poison pen
In sexual frustration.
What it produces is wasted semen
Ejaculating a commentary of callous cum
And the intelligent poems pity you
As you cannot control your
Your crusted marks of degradation are wiped away with deepest disdain
You think you are so very clever
With the disguises you don.
So as to remain elusive and unstoppable in your destructive desires
If I could, I would find a way to castrate your crayon
Then the beautiful poems would feel safe once again!
And their pure embodiment can lay out in the scripted sun
without fear of your perverse eye peering upon them.
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