F.T.Willz poems (prolly frank iero no one knows)

sadly no title

don't hate monsters, hate their makers.

that means the world should hate itself.

take a good hard look through this shattered lens and tell me you don't see what i see.

oh, you don't see it?

that's too bad (boohoo so fucking sad).

look again. strain your optical muscles until the nerves fray and synapses short and fry to the tune of ten thousand volts (fssszzt "aw man what smells like burnt meat" "your face") and your eyes bulge out of their sockets like two sentient gelatinous orbs with an escape plan labeled "operation get-me-the-hell-outta-here. pull one out of your skull and slot it into the eyepiece, here it is, go ahead. is it dangling out of your head, hanging on a bloody length of brain spaghetti like a disgusting little meatball that some snooty sonuvabeach would cautiously poke with a fork and then grab the nearest waiter by the throat and demand to see the management for?

do you see it yet?

no?

then turn around. look at me. it's inside me here, what you need to see. the ancient filter in the lens should show you everything. you're shrinking back in horror, chattering teeth and goosebumping flesh, snatching your eye away to haphazardly shove it back in your head. look. at. me. oh, you're running now. sprinting. that won't do you any good, you know (foolish fleeing fool). my disease, this hateful burning social disease, it's in everyone, everyone you know, everyone you meet.

not even sweet ole halcion blue can save you now.

-F.T.WillZ