February 22nd, 2009

Your story is weak, she said to me one night.
You've forgotten punctuation and capitalization,
Your teen years are a bunch of run-on sentences
While your childhood lacks memory.

So I responded with,
If you think you can do better,
Rewrite my whole damn story yourself.
These years have proven nothing but failure.

But she didn't.
Instead she stubbed out her smoke,
And wished me a venomous good-bye,
Which I ate up in the hopes it would finally
bring me peace.

I'm vomiting these tears I cannot cry,
Would you please help me paint them on my eyes?