It's the goddamnedest thing to realize
That my passion burns like a horrid yeast infection,
One that has gone too long
Without proper care.
I want to love you, but with anger at my side,
I play games with devilish
Beings, for I am careless
About your flights of fancy.
It's not that I hate your kind
Or have something against people like you,
I just grow ever so tired
Of your tedium of life.
I'll grow over you, smother you
Like a mother smothering her child with love,
And I'd do it on purpose,
That's just me though,
I'll smother whoever the hell I want to smother.
…
With love, that is.
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