The beast's heart.

I call it a beast (not a monster).
So I'm waiting for it to transform into something clean, pristine.
It's fed me hassle in the past few days with its constant denial.

Denial, like a try with no steel.
Like a female fist tryin to balance on a soft mashmellow heel.
Like white paint covering black teeth. It's the toothpaste smile of the pussy beast.
Like riding a bicycle with a flat tire. Waiting for the fall. Or the applause.
Like sitting on a poker table with an ace of spades, adding hours on its wasted days.
Losing every bloody time.

Never a winner, this pussy beast. Never been to Troy. Never seen a forked eye. Never put out a cigarette on a wrist. Never kept tears in jars. Never really moved a muscle. 
Leaving it all to chance, the pussy beast forgot how to chew, breathe, whistle.
Unless the dice said otherwise.

This beast is a mess. A fuck up. A lifelong hustler.
Putting it publicly up here, its phase of atonement begins.