Mother thinks my poems hopeless
Father thinks my hope quaint
But stripping a bullshit veneer is no hopeless howl
She follows the bait
The trap springs
A neck is snapped
He follows the bait
Mounts the corpse
And spills his seed
INSTINCT, what we are
INSTINCT, we're leaving behind
I howl for the bright and beautiful
A new world to share
Hold on tight
Here we go
!
2007
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