Bestest Wishes-es

10/12 I won't answer to anyone but myself anymore/ not knowing when to stop.

Murderous junk
by this midevil poet
says I.
Or so I says.
I've jerked in the interm.
I don't think this counts,
but what do I know?
Forlorn from
slapping,
flipping,
and rubbing it down,
ohhh noes!
I could kill it faster
than it'd feel
for leaving it alone.
Which I should,
but I can't.
But I should.
And I won't.
So,
just so you know,
the fuck you should
shut up from
comes from me.