Sick and Tired
You spot the weakness with your beady little eyes,
You mark the spot with a neat little ‘x’
You may wait a while, but you’ll never forget,
To dig.
Dig.
Dig.
Amazing that you’re still so shallow.
She’s two faced.
One sickly sweet,
One the blackest, deepest black hole you can find.
Together, they are ruthless. Merciless.
And you don’t even notice ‘till too late.
She’s sick, but,
I’m sick and tired.
So fuck you and all your games.
I hope you have fun while it lasts,
In your cold as ice coffin,
Because you’re dead too me.
I could say that you’ve made me into what I am now.
You can call me sad, and bad.
Because I don’t rise to your threats.
You do call me sad, and bad,
When I hold my tears till later.
But do you ever wonder,
Who could I get it from?
That’s right.
I know you enjoy you’re sick little games,
Your offhand comments are no more than a casual remark to you,
But their breezy current soon turns to a hurricane,
Wreaking havoc,
An inner turmoil in my heart.
I have the wind knocked out of my chest.
Naturally, my startled lungs gasp for air.
My trembling lips take a mouthful of your wicked breeze.
And suddenly, I am a monster.
‘But I’m caught in the middle of two wrongs-trying to make a right.’
Eww, angry poem!
