you know when you think of paper cuts, you can vividly remember how they feel? well, that's how it feels when i think about you. and in a morbidly sick, twisted way, i just can't get enough of the feeling.
Don't talk to me about your love, I've never seen a drop of it. Don't talk to me about the climb, I'll never reach the top of it. Don't talk to me about the flowers You've been prattling on for ****** hours! Don't talk to me as if I don't know That "rain will make the flowers grow".
Don't talk to me about your dance I don't even have a dress. Don't talk to me about your friends I beg of you, give it a rest! Don't talk to me about the sky Mine has only ever been gray. And if you try to talk about "healing" I'll MAKE you go away!
This whole world that you create, It's gorgeous, I must say it's great: A beautiful cake on a pretty plate. Welp, guess that means I'm second-rate! Your poems are all meant to titillate You titter and twitter and domesticate These themes that even optimists could hate I'll never be able to felicitate You enough for the work that you narrate. My morbid tones you must negate, And to fix my soul: eviscerate!
You all are fine but some douchette will not shut up about how morbid and dreary my poems are. I regret ever having shown her.