Pressure

What type of pressure do you like? And where?

Throat or down below.

Hold up or press the throttle? When family looks at you like there’s no tomorrow. Do you dig the next mans or find your own bottom.

Lessons spew, like a parent’s tongue and food battling to stick. They pray it’s not crime lurking.

Murdering innocence has the world leaking like a hydrant. Sending it downstream only passes on the shit.

Press her. Pres-sir. Written on sheets, the ones that crumble, burn covering others or wash clean, when you bleed a lie, it stains, occupying its hold. When you stress the truth, it creates a terror—people run for cover.

Press and surely lose. Don’t take what bothers another.