Maybe E.A. Poe is my idol—Or rather a favorite Because I get my inspiration from him.
Oh well, Annabel Lee, My aunt is no Annabel Lee.
We neither have to experience The Fall of the House of Usher,
Nor wander in the shadows of The Raven's lore.
There’s no Tell-Tale Heart beneath my floor
Nor do we tremble at The Masque of the Red Death's door.
We shan't endure The Pit and the Pendulum's sway,
Or face The Black Cat's ominous gaze.
The horrors of The Cask of Amontillado are far from view
As are the riddles of The Murders in the Rue Morgue, too.
"Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!" Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

Your son will be the death of you— remember that, remember that
Oh wait, I forgot
Because when you literally walk around town
You do not have a brain in your head

Clueless as **** now, are we?
You keep telling people **** about us
When you feel so clean and pure

How hypocrite! All of them know what the truth is now
Stop blaming us for the ******-up life of your son
Clean your own mess, stop letting us clean your own mess

As for your son, directors and scriptwriters would be so proud of him
For creating such a ******* brilliant masterpiece
He could be featured in one of the news, or write stories for films
I could cry while I applaud for him— crocodile tears and flowery words won't work on me this time
He could prepare a speech, I'd prepare for a eulogy for him
He could receive a bouquet from one of his fans, I could give him a funeral wreath, saying "Condolence to the bereaved family"
Because I'd love to see you in your deathbed, covered in blood, stabbed in different parts of your body
One million—not a pocket money or a spot cash but rather, stabbed wounds
Slitted throat, fractured bones;
Sawed limbs and gouged eyes.

I dreamed of it, to be this gothic
And you, my dear, is my main prospect
But I ain't the suspect or the mastermind
I am the victim, for this ******* of yours

Time will come, your first hurrah and laughs, will be my last hurrah and laughs.
Mark my words, be careful with your life
Because one day, you might not wake up alive next day.

Even red roses withered and turns to black when dried
Even candles run out of wick
Even people run out of steps to walk on
But you never run out of emotions—angry of petty reasons
Making a big deal out of it
I am so tired from all of this drama
I never even signed up for this
I never even subscribed on it
But why does it keep messing up with me?
Shut the **** up. But nah. You never listen to me anyway.
So, thank you for this opportunity you gave me, and let me label you as the Karen of our family.