Splenda-Kills

At what point did I decide that I need to recount my life in rhyme and elegant lines, sophisticated metaphors, and At what point Did I decide my sentences were Best broken up                 Into fragments, Did I think                 It would alter The message                 I’m conveying To you? And, At what point did I decide that I needed to Forsake the period? Exhaust the comma? An endless barrage of rhetoric-al questions, and Run-on sentences, Running—                Running—                                     Running— Gaining intensity as I raise my voice, At what point Did I decide setting up the

Fashion for me, toy maker, a very special doll With eyes plucked from the cold abyss And skin a brittle Fall. Weave her hair from seaweed and the tresses of an ass, Lips of rotten berries, and Her nails of broken glass. Give her breath, dear toy maker, and voice, a witch's groan; And stitch into her supple breast A heart of porous stone.

Word. A vague and Civil way To express the Feelings We harbor inside. Words can be—      —Tangled. —Emphasized.     —Sweetened. —Misleading.     —Misunderstood. —Lost. They never Do our feelings Justice, But they provide A quick glance Into Our Souls.

I corrupt people. I spin my tales like a spider's web, A writer's web leaves dizzying trails On which I grab your pretty hair (and rip some out, I'm sorry...not) and drag you along my terrifying ride. I corrupt people. I stain this paper on which I write With the pure impurity of my mind and people love it, eat it, dream it, for I stain these people too. And my claws sadistically rip into you And tear through your skin, your heart, your soul Until I find proof that you love it too. I corrupt people. I am the one with voice sincere While drabbl'ing words you like to hear And you eat it all up. I write, and I corrupt.