Drunk Rant

How many love letters do you get

a day

a week

or even a year?

How many stupid sonnets do they write,
these love-obsessed queers
and girls
you like on Tuesday but give up on Thursday?
Your big dick dangling across their faces,
slapping them silly on occasion
their twisted eyes
on ecstasy,
'cept they don't swallow a pill,
just you...
Boom,
bashing,
puncturing tiny vessels
and great big walls
without a moment's care
'cause they're there
and why not take advantage of every situation,
er, person,
and make fake-love to these dreamers
as they create in their heads
clichéd thoughts and stories in the form of fucked up sentences
all arty and the like
anticipating their ride home
on a dirty, dangerous subway line
iPod on deck
so they can jot down the stupid memory on a writer's application
and remember, for always,
the pretty little liar that you were
the liar they didn't see and won't see for some time, really
'cause it takes time to wake up from the dream
and what you won't know
or rather, 
what you will know but will choose to ignore or let go,
is the sad fact that these people,
these lovers 
will spend numerous moments of their lives
reflecting on your days together
un-sent love letters pouring out
the notes going from glee
to pity 
recounting false love and
miscommunicated declarations of affection
recalling
that motherfucker with a bat 
so big
so strong
so brown and Dominican

Basically

Perhaps, after all this here—
after all of these miles and miles of lines—
in the end, after all, what i meant to say was:
it's amazing that your love was mine.