A Poem Entitled Untitled

You’ve killed me so many times

that if you buried the bodies

they’d make mountains out of

molehills

If you want a garden,

Fertilize my ashes that’ll grow

sour grapes with a bitter taste

that go in the hater-ade

that’s premium grade

Maybe the pope will one day

join the ranks

of a bleeding heart

that stank from all the blood

that stained so long

that it’s rank

and the pain so strong

that it’s frank

this is my life and it tanked

so maybe I just have you to thank

you broke the bank after you kept

turning the crank