I’m sorry that I’m just a bunch
Of bleeding failures
And that I’m a basketful
Of irksome blues and woes;
I’m sorry that you’re forced
To hear me out,
Night after vexing night
And day after galling day.
Although, I’m not the one
You need to seek
Nor am I the one
Who deserves to even speak,
I won’t ever apologize
For the sharpened words
That I so love to drip
Onto sheets of bloodied paper
And buckets filled with sleep.
For, love isn’t always the answer
And I’m not in the mood
To patronize you for your smiles
Nor humor you for your sighs.
Love me or leave me;
Yet, I’ll still be the idyllist
Who’ll spill my fetid guts
On now cheapened parchments,
On whatever and whatnot.

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