crushed like a wilted rose
half past its prime
half past-it's prime
my heart and soul are black
black with the paint, the paint
of your rejection.
which tore me
into two, then sewed me back
together again with a dull, rusty
blunt needle which really wasn't
a needle, but more of a blunt-pokey thing
and now my life is worthless, not worth anything,
something you wouldn't pay for, 'cuz it wouldn't
be worth the money you spent on it
which would be bad, 'cuz you work hard
for your money, and i'm not worth the time
it took you to earn the money
which is by all rights yours
government takes its fair share
my love is your hell to live and
die in. emphasis on the die,
if i can't have you, well, to put
it bluntly (bluntly, like a blunt-pointy
thing), no one else can have me.
why? why, you ask, i'll tell you why.
because i'm down
i'm downer than a down, down, down your street,
and it's over.
enjoy your pathetic life
or whatever short amount of it is left.