Somewhere along the line the illusion will lift off of you two as well,
This is not a hate poem,
Although it is real in its dictum,
There's no ill will directed,
It could be just careful denial,
Seen as death and pain incarnate,
Really it was a good day,
And it is the truth I say,
This is not a hate song,
but **** em,
Hearing your circular coughs,
Like being force fed garbage,
Maybe this is a plea,
For an escape plan,
Perhaps a want of new beginnings,
I'll stay as long as,
It takes to see you two crash and burn,
You two make it so easy,
To lose track of my place,
Like an endless vertigo,
I felt creep up over my sockets,
Fog is clear and now all I have to say is,
**** THEM,
Everything points to something,
I'm happy mine's pointing away,
We all hold a gun my "friend,"
And yours are pointing at each other,
It is just a clause to a want,
saying so is something entirely different,
Because I work and slave to shape this,
While the two of you sit back and,
Exploit what it meas in a devilish laugh.