Poems about bucket

Could of filled a thousand times
Up I went, opened that loose pink hole
Must have felt like air between thighs.
-
But you were always wanting more in-kind
Up it went did you feel anything inside
Could say I was small I was 9 inches 2 wide
Keep it coming fill you up, my sacks gave too much
Empty shrivelled bags seeds sewn now only dust
T**ill the next time my sexy Cum Bucket love.

I'll try to empty my closet
Make myself a pan cake
Besides a little crumpet

Before I kick the bucket
To a concert I'll buy a ticket
For my love and a bouquet
Plus a precious trinket

Before I kick the bucket
I'll play some armature cricket
Maybe hit a single wicket
That's just a part of my target

*Before I kick the bucket
In that window racket
I'll go to the nearest market
And buy myself a casket

I like feeling
Insignificant in
Comparison to
The large scale
Of things.
That's why
Before i die,
I want to spend
A week beside the ocean.
& every night,
I want to sit right
Where the shore meets the sand
And feel as free as the waves
Crashing in the distance.
And i want to go find
A rooftop, that's just the perfect height
And get some blankets
And fall asleep,
Just a speck in a
Massive space.
But somehow, that doesn't scare me
The way it should.

"This is the end, my friend..."

Take refuge in the Golden Years.
Retire to an inevitable monastery
Plopped on a suburban mountaintop.
Immerse yourself in the lost writings
Of Nikita Khrushchev and Harry S Truman.
Learn to cook gizzards and meditate.
Find solace in obsolete atomic weapons,
Enlightenment in the raw, butchered
Expressions of the naked thermonuclear.
Wangle, diddle, fire, and maneuver.
Get in touch with your inner Eichmann.
Devour baskets of tasty deplorables.
Stop clinging to guns and religion.
Love the fascism of the ordinary.
Become content with mere content.
Stop waving daggers at the innocent.
Wash yourself in the blood of the lamb.
Accept that Woodstock was futile.
Admit you can't get no satisfaction.
Penetrate the goddess of unreason,
And come screaming to your senses.
Declare the dawn of the Age of Onanism.
Keep your fingers out of Pandora's box.
Bid farewell to the ghost of Joe Hill.
Depart the smothering, smooth life
Of lust, corn flakes, and competition.
Expand your mind in a mushroom cloud.
Travel upriver to the Vagina of Darkness,
Legendary source of honeyed generation.
Attain new heights of perfect despair.
Discover the latent bliss of cassowaries,
Rooted in their strong disdain for kale.
Play poker with the spirits of the dead.
These are your days of lucky revelation.
Lick magic frogs and witness lost dreams.
Arrive at the perfect wisdom of what is.
Everything and nothing, just what it seems.

I sometimes think
That i've defeated the reaper
That lives in my finger tips.
The reaper that commandeered my hands
And made them weapons of
Self destruction.

He lies dormant
Long enough to convince me
That he's found another home.
But he takes me hostage
Every now and again
To remind me he's here.

I forgot the thoughts
Of an early death
And lived like i was planning
For next year.
I've been expecting a future
That i'm not sure exists.

But the reaper has made me
Recall the consideration
That i may not be fit to live
A life as long as i would like.

As of right now
I have no plans to interrupt this life
With eternal sleep.
But i cannot promise
That in some time
The reaper will not convince me.

So while he sleeps
While i still have time
Theres so much
I need to do before i die.

I need to feel love
Without the fear
Of that love being expunged.
I need to find my God
Whether he be the one
I've been shown or not.

I want so badly
To look at myself
The same way
I look at a flower.
I want so badly to see
What others say they see in me.

I've always wanted
To be something good.
A good daughter,
Lover,
Friend.

And i have this desire
To help where i can
And not need any myself.
I want to matter
In a life besides my own
And hold value above my worth.

I don't want to
Be a burden anymore.
I don't want to be
A pressing responsibility on anybody.
I don't want the few i love
To feel obligated to pick me out of
My own disasters.

I worry i won't fulfill
These aspirations in time.
The reaper will wake
And take control again
This time with the force
Of ten thousand men.

Ten thousand men
Wielding my hands
Instead of swords.
They turn my hands against me
As they had been turned before.

This time i will not survive.
Such an incredible might
Will devour and destroy
This fragile self i defend.

But what does it matter
What i want?
Theres so much more
Things that are so much bigger
Than the desires of a deranged
Little girl

Holding on.
Not been a good week.
Aches and pains.
Disappointment and more.
Writing a Will.
Editing the Will.
Thinking about death.
Do I want to wait,
Or should I select my
Own time?
Suicide is a sin.
Purgatory no doubt.
Holding on.
Back to square zero.
Last weeks' optimism fading.
No, not fading, rather, faded.
Gone.
Ended.
Hitting mental icebergs
And creating
Desperate images
Circle of life.
Circle of death.
Cycles really.
Metamorphosis.
Even butterflies
Expire from the
Drama of living.
Flicker like smokestacks
That expel black smoke.
That is me. Black smoke,
And a bucket of tumours.

Singing to myself,
Rain thuds on my roof.
All by myself,
I get lonely at night.

I can only imagine
Your soft touch,
Or even inhale
The scent of your hair.

The biggest mistake I ever made
Was accepting the hatred you had for me.
Whenever I should have taken your hands,
I cut off my own.

Drunkenly walk
And dance
And sing
Along the sparkling sewers
Of Paris.