I am displeased – with this disease of dressing battle wounds in glitter, Your fame is flawed in misconception and shadows with memories bitter, If you speak one more flaunt– of all that you have conquered Some last nerve will be morphed into a devil angered {And every stitch of your corpse beauty is undone by meager truth, If you could breathe real breath, instead of something so obtuse, You just might find that the best loyalty is never born out of ruth But from a heart that forever sings [unlike you], dearest, here is your gilded noose} It’s not treason to call you liar, who sailed us into heretic weeds And it’s not wrong [at least morally] to undermine your worth, Wasn’t it you, with all your smiles, who planted within me sordid seeds, I would give all my verses to bet that even demons cried at your birth.
Posted on: Sat, 21 Sep 2013 18:02:58 +0000
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