You've painted me the monster, and yourself a saint.
I'm here to tell you now, that's not true as of late.
You say that I'm a killer, that I lack remorse.
Listen here toots, get off your high horse.
Your ugly and vain.
And for that I can't complain.
After all, it gives me reasons to put your name to shame.
Your failures bring me nothing but fame.
So with my last good bye, I just have to ask, was it really true.
Was the monster every truly me, or was it really you?
YOU ARE READING
The Drabbles of a Young Mind
PoesíaPoems made during fits of passion, or you know, whenever it is that inspiration decides to hit.
