It is man's greatest enemy, who'd criticize him before any other,
where others saw no fault; who'd raise a hand to him, take his life, only
when he felt lower than ever; and his greatest ally,
who'd pick him up to carry onward, where all others
would surely fail.

Sixteen lines of mediocre prose,
arranged neatly, into four stanzas,
simply because that is the way they are,
not for any purpose.

But here, see how he struggles!
To fit these messages, semi-coherent,
into his own restricting rhythm,
the format of the green-horned fool.

But, once again, he mimics himself;
on purpose, he thinks, to be clever,
but nothing positive is written.
Perhaps I'm just a hypocrite.

I'm so tired of being angry.
I want to be melancholic again.
Anything but angry.
I need them to leave me alone.
But they just won't let me be.

They're just a dull knuckle
Pushing down on the crest of my mind.
But nobody notices I'm crying.
I'm just helping to prop them up.
Whispering about the pain.

I could float in sound,
But I drown in the depths of noise.
The crescendos of songs would lift me high
But they clutch at my ankles and scream.
Just let me freeze where I can at least see the stars.

I can't ******* escape them.
They follow me everywhere
Like they're ******* haunting me.
Like they believe I  loved them enough to **** them.
I can't stop begging Acheron to ferry them off already.

I drink and I drink from his stygian lake.
And death's wine never tasted so good;
How I used to love to write of wine.
But alcohol makes them sad.
And their sobs never seem to end.

I'm begging you to stop.
Stop leaning on me,
Stop screaming,
Stop ******* following me,
Stop wasting my wine,

I don't want to be angry.
I want to be forgotten.
I was never good at being alone.
But at least then I was only sad.
Just *******.

Please...