the Critic
your words annoy me
with its pretentiousness
your perceived skills
talking about nothing
thoroughly bore me
talk faster
or with an accent
to entertain me
you could kill yourself
show’s over
then, though,
i would have nothing
to judge so harshly
as everyone remains
sad for dying, dead things
until i find another
thing that fascinates
my dire wit and
horrid attitude that
makes you want
to hurt me with
your words again…
Posted by :\_khet on December 5th, 2013 in poetry archives. You can leave a response or trackback from your own site.