They point exaggerated barrels at my temple,
But they can't go through it,
The act alone is miserable,
The bittersweet police ensues,

My swan song's consist of an encore,
I don't want to be depressed,
Another cliche statistic bliss in the obsolete of death,
Or a string of narcissism,
Fitted within' a poetical prism,
A postcard of ill remembrance,
Soaked in vats of venom,

The bittersweet police chase me,
Bitter is my imagery;
and there's a sweet spot in my apathy