I see enemies on the blogosphere each time I visit. Thieves who steal your lines, betrayers, haters, backstabbers, cutthroats and male and female perverts. Come up with something original bitch. Or at least take what I give and spin it like a top, until a dizzying stream of consciousness helps you write better. I give people my friendship, my hand to clasp but devoid of integrity they stab me in the front and that hurts more than some vagabond roughing me up for cash. And all this talk about ‘creeps,’ well what about the female version, the fucking cyber whore. She pretends as if things are pretty picture perfect, but in all actuality has no life except a virtual one where she leads strangers on. The fuck girl. Yeah come, you Nazi feminists. Wave your pink swastikas. I have nothing to lose anymore. I’m sick of cyber whores ganging up on people because someone rejects them or because they perceive rejection. You are not the center of the universe woman. I could care less if you’re lying on a pothole tomorrow, intoxicated or if you’re flying high. Leave me the fuck alone. That’s the only thing I want. A world devoid of you sending e-mails to people or personal messages targeting me. You know you’re in the wrong but like the typical narcissist you are, you cannot accept your fault and go running to some black cock, sucking him dry virtually and saying, ‘Daddy he’s after me.’ You’re a pervert with no sense of purpose and an absolute waste of space. I put up with this shit for way too long. Groups, ostracism, hate, threats, sick twisted bullshit but I’m not taking it anymore. You want a war? Do you fucking want a war? I’m talking to all of you and to you Drake. I hear you. You’re just a rag-and-bone peddler of poor poetry. Your lines have no meter and yeah you try fam, but you fall short. Do me a fucking favor and stop your Jesus, Malcolm X, Black Supremacist swinging back and forth between a two-inch cock erection and preaching and get a fucking identity bitch. Develop something we call a personality. And that whore’s valiant alright. But she’s playing you. Her lines make no sense. It’s cryptic, verbose jargon. She has no command over the English language and is a creep. A virtual stalker who shags thinking you’ve got a large pecker when we know you don’t. You say you’re in college and I’m in school but your lines lack meter, rhythm and they aren’t in the manner of poetry or rap. They’re just lost somewhere between like a faggot pretending to be in the closet. And I guess that’s what you are boy. So, come on out. Get yourself a man. Maybe a white man. He’ll treat you good. And to the selfie taking bitch who steals my lines, your child is in the closet, screaming, ‘Mama! Mama!’ While you’re shagging off to a married man on a phone conversation. You’re the whore of Babylon, sitting on a dragon of false-youth. You’re old, your tits sag and your cunt’s loose. And hey cryptic bitch, do me a favor and stop putting yourself on a pedestal because you fucking get a hundred likes. You get them because you’re a creep. Not because you have talent. Your writing is spittle that only the coffee shop poet loves.
© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)