the haaaannnggg in hangover grapples
my chest like another sad defeat. some
created battlefield felt my angel control
nothing, control nothing. I cry at constant
implication, and the choice is yours again.
you, with your busy life, pick my heart like
a puppeteer having not yet noticed the strings.
I pull in all directions and wonder why I do
this to myself; why I look for pegs to stick the
strings together, hand you a puppeteer's hand-
book and tell you my world is always ending
whenever you're around.