Your eyes filled with lust,
but not any for me.
Your nose filled with fire
breaking forth, free.

Death fills your mouth,
then out it spill!
Making me feel
so terribly ill.

There by your neck
lays a thousand pound weight.
You're wanting to talk,
but the air won't escape.

Your shoulders are creaking
of built up unease.
Slowly the pressure
will burst from your seams.

I won't mention your heart;
I feel that cliched.
But even if I did
there'd be nothing to say!

Your stomach is dying
with hate and disease.
It's not a pretty picture,
but the truth doesn't please.

And finally your feet
all down to your toes;
the corrupt ground you tread on
took care of those.

This picture I painted
is all from the heart.
Truly, I mean it;
may it pierce like a dart!