You know, there are men who posses soft hands. And why use the finger when sex toys are readily available AND well designed for their purpose? But anyway, that aside, I like this.

Well executed. Blessed with nine.

I'm groping frantically for a solemn place to escape the foul flatulent winds howling from your asshole.

It's better not to try grasping what isn't there, rather than seizing the flatulence wafting through
your cranium's stale, hollow, and oxygen-deprived air.

Er, ehem, could this be considered an improper limerick? I know it doesn't fit the particular rhyme scheme and such.. ah, fuck it, whatever.

"i tendons tear apart"

Eh? What in holy fuck is with the I? Is it a disease? Did you somehow fool yourself into thinking it was necessary, like you convinced yourself that sharing this pimple-lyric to the world was a brilliant undertaking?

Allow me to compact this whole thing, though I can not preserve its claim to being a lyric in the process:

Silly emotions have flooded my hormone filled head
so much that I now wish to be very very dead;
but my grip on the .36 is slipping due to my tears,
hampering my attempt to fill my cranium with lead--
so instead, I'll wail till blood comes out y'ears
in the form of a bad lyric you'll wish y'never read.

Not bad eh? In fact, I think I'll post this. Oh, and heres a resounding zero. Do us all a favor, smoke some weed, and find something that inspires better creativity... OK? Or slit your wrists, you know, whatever works.

This needs a bit of consideration, and more defined shaping of the scene.

While the title presupposes the theme, it as it stands now is a little confusing to me; basically, I'm wondering if you have a pretty good image & mental snapshot of the of this man, posed in that odd bodily articulation assumed just before & during the coveted arrival of deathly-bliss; the opiate rushing
of the soul towards oblivion...

Or if he just discovered that it was laced with acid and had a sporadic thought, or image, of enhancing the coming madness with the consumtion of an bloody orange.

In short, I'd be happy to see this piece recieve some sharper definition. The image and thought this poem grasps for is worth perfecting. Till then, mate, heres a seven.

So, Edna, who is the anonymous admirer? That's what I'd like to know.

And as for sweet, you appear quite bitter, M'lady.
Lack of love perhaps? Or an overabundance of self-love?
Lack-a-day! Who can say? Still it perplexes me.

I pressed in the plunger
and ran to the john
afraid but not sorry
it had to be done

Ok, say this out loud to yourself. Notice anything? I do. John doesn't ryhme with done. Perhaps Don, but not done. That aside, I bless you with an eight.

Zero this bitch. har har har.

Savvy?

Just shoot yourself already woman.