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I believe

I believe I live in the world of saints
so, writing verse on ****** is my stupidity
people that is just my poetic personality
you hate me, 'The Kid'
for all my written deeds
but unaware about my individuality
your mind is filled with 'divine bullshit'
you cannot hide it
you preach it in every words
sometime I feel it but sometimes blurred
sometimes I think you only want to show
only want to boast what you know
but you know nothing my child
you cannot interpret my mind
you heart is dark,so is my metaphors
I am not going to cry
but make you deaf with my roars
call me a psychopath, a rapper
you can kill me with gun
just pull the trigger
its going to be fun
or you can put me in a prison
but I am not leaving this group
I ain't gonna run
so what if I hated a woman?
and wrote a poem with my pain
ok I talked about her menstruating
I am guy so you people find it disgusting
oh wait a minute!
you people are children of great almighty
fancy heaven after death and at present saving humanity
and I can't rape a girl with my creativity
and my words shows the symptoms of insanity
and you question me
with that filthy makeup of melancholy
you hide your smile for a while
" Do you anybody who has been molested when they were younger? "
yes, I have been molested frequently
Do I get a little sympathy?
or do I become a looser?
molested by my loneliness
yes I agree my words are soulless
so they fill my poem with "uncalled explicitness"
well my apologies people.
I am not a Hemingway
and haven't read a Baby Shoe
my poem is not colorful and gay
its all blue.
I mixed my anger with little bit of a filthy imagination
My poetic license does allow me a little bit of deception
don't you think?
answer me without any blink.
and I am always confused with grammar
I really want to make it stronger.
these social convention and rules
turn me sick, they are so cruel
I find my imagination trapped in your restriction
and you are eager to rape my imagination
but I find lots of opinion very logical
you folks like to be very critical
turning me into 'Talk of the Town'
blabbing same things round and round
and at last
you know only my poem
you know only the ******
everything is metaphor
but I don't want to explain everything
my heart is not filled with hatred for women
actually it's empty, there is nothing.

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