To Crucify a Saint

June 10, 2011
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I’m sorry do I know you?
Your name has slipped my mind.
Guess your sense of importance,
Is only self-defined.

I hate the way you laugh out loud,
At your jokes that aren’t even funny.
And all the obnoxious, brand name clothes,
You bought with daddy’s money.

Dude, you crave attention,
Like an addict needs heroin.
I’d love to smash your synthesizer.
Revenge can be the sweetest sin.

You think that I’m a bad guy,
but it doesn’t matter how you feel.
You say that I was nasty.
But I‘m just being real.

I am not a monster,
I’m not haunted by some demon.
I just really don’t like you,
And I’ve got a damn good reason.

You never said my name,
Without a giggle from your friends.
That is, if you acknowledged me,
To you, I was better off dead.

I got tired of your games.
And I’m annoyed with all your bull.
So even now, I’m not ashamed,
Of all the stuff I pulled.

So yeah, I fought a bit dirty,
And I called couple names.
But your neglect, though sneakier,
Is spiteful all the same.

And then you’ve got the nerve,
To tell me I was mean?
You’re either brave or stupid,
I’ll show the definition of obscene.

So instead of freaking out at you,
I wrote this thing that rhymes.
I’ve kept it clean in this poem
But just you wait ‘til next time

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