From, With Anger

Eternal premise,

lambasted by the guilt of what he’d have to do to get there.

Dances with the wolves,

and dines on the hours

you spent waiting.

Who’s the man behind the dickhead,

and why do I feel like I used to know him?

Rhyme, retort,

and return to sender.

Sharpen your ink and I’ll sharpen mine.

Let’s all have a turn on the merry-go-round,

make merry, make proud,

sit down and spin.

Eat your heart out, kid.

And you?

Bittersweet bus-ride symphony,

cacophony,

epiphany of the erratic mind,

the sudden slow realization that this isn’t what he wants,

bit off more than he can chew,

gnaws at me,

then spits me out like gristle. 

Cheap move, motherfucker,

and who’s next?

Get grabbed and hit

below the belt,

oh, ow,

bam, pow,

black-tie black eye,

purple like-

no, I won’t say,

and not quite as wide.

And how will he say it to you?

No trust broken like a broken truss,

roof sags down,

water gets in on ten years of memories

and it all starts to mold.

Wrap your heart in cellophane,

but not too tight,

the King of Hearts needs to see it bleed for him.

It’s proof that he can be loved.

I’m proof that he can be hated.