one little mistake and the clicker clicks backwards and everything is lost. one flash from a window and everything is fried. one step of a feline and everything is off. oopswrongbuttoncocksuckfuck and the screen now reads 'blind melon lyrics' again oopswrongbuttoncocksuckfuck. ever had that happen with a pen and a paper? a pencil and a napkin? an eyeliner stick and some doped up chick's journal? a bet, a razor, and parchment paper? me... i'll take ink lead graphite make-up or blood any day of the week over buttons screens whining fans pixel deception and alright fuck it i know as well as you know that the internet and computers are in the homes of america for pirating gaming adultury and pornography and not one other fucking thing excpet maybe helping your brainwashed child learn the false history of man and country a little easier quicker and less substantial the american way until this monster came along and made it the way of the world and this was another poem until the wrong button got hit and on paper the word 'hit' would never have accidentally become 'hoe' because i can play a fucking guitar til the cows return to their stead with these fingers o' mine but typing, man, makes a hit into a hoe and the backspace button is my only pal and last time i (h)it him asking for help he erased it all and oopswrongbuttoncocksuckfuck if it wasn't for weed i might break the whole fucking machine and to think i paid $2500 for this all-encompassing do-anything beast of technology that does offer a financial return with tens of thousands of dollars of free music and movies and yea, i was able to go check out the new Sigur Ros video (Gisoli... i highly recommend it) and yea, i get good info on shit i need info on but the fucker erases my poems and like everything else that has great material benefits it tends to steal away little irretrievable pieces of one's soul. oopswrongbuttoncocksuckfuck you dirty dirty little girl, you... always teasing your daddy with the pains of out-of-the-blue inspiration... the kind of fucking cunt you wanna hug into you... if only for the tiny, illicit moments of fucking the world. but i tell you still the word prefers the smell of dead tree and the flow of ink into the recesses of each and every thought to the stale betrayal of this leisure prison we've all bought.Birth sign: Taurus
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