A bitter boy you are,
with twisted words and twisted fangs,
sour lips and ****** knuckles;
boy, you sure do love a good fight.
That's an awful lot of snickering
for a guy who's surely bluffing,
and I'm quite certain you know
as well as I, you're full of ****,
but your tangy hands and acid fingers seem so daunting
when you cast out all your hateful "truths".
I'm torn between all the love and all the hate,
it's inevitable that they'd congeal
into a sordid mixture
and so it was a bitter boy
spoiled.
You know I used to punish myself if I kept talking about him or writing about him, and it's been well over a year since I wrote about this guy instead of someone else, so I figured I won't punish myself if I did it this time.
I was hit with some pretty hard nostalgia the other day about it, and well, it's bittersweet when there's good but so much bad weighing down a past.
