Maybe if you had more time, maybe this wouldn't have happened.
Or maybe it wouldn't be happening, because it hasn't stopped.
I used to envy your long, flowing, red hair -- but now I know
Now I know it's the color of sickness, the color of disease
And I don't know why it's still growing, because you just don't eat.
And I know this won't do anything, this won't change a thing.
It's still happening, and maybe, just maybe if
I had more time,
I would have said something, (but what to say?) because it hasn't stopped.
This story isn't mine, it isn't mine to tell, it isn't my role to play.
Yet I think these things, I dream these words, I wonder -
When I will see you in your casket, dead, placid, red.
And you, I can't stand it - and maybe you don't know.
The blaze (incessant blaze!!) the ping (heartwrenching ping)...
It doesn't end, at least in my mind, 'Why won't they leave you alone?!'
And it's my jealousy, my heart-hurt rage, my problems,
I know it is - and I know (I do know) you feel the same
No more will I hurt you - so let's just throw them away.
Because now it seems strange, the dynamic has changed
You've grown dependent, and I've grown weary... I see how it is now.
I promise I will end this, but can't expect the same
Because, as I have noted, it has become nonstop; incessant.
And you will argue the opposite, and I will argue my way-
And we will have gotten nowhere, nowhere fast.
So why is it the blaze - the ping - that sets me off?
You have so trained yourself, and I can only stand and stare -
Marvel. How is this possible? I can only ever wonder, ever believe -
Maybe I can be like you some day, maybe I can be just like you.
And I have personalized this poem (is this shit even a poem?)
I-and-me-and-my; But they're not my words, the stories aren't mine to tell
I thought it would be a good idea to just spew this bullshit,
Because the words have been caught inside me like nightmares
That plague me as I sleep - they never go away like these thoughts.
You told me once how I suck at basketball, and I punched you out
I gawked as you picked your nose with your thumb and ate it.
You always did that, and made me the ugly one (I'm the one who sucks, not you).
And as your eyes cried those sick pity-tears and the fat woman comforted you,
I watched as the bruise formed upon your bicep, and told them I threw a ball at you.
You, you, you ~ why are you here? My anger seems to be telling me something,
Something I need to know; I need to know I must not strike out in anger, I must withhold.
The empty bag floats and rolls across the street in the wind and I roll over it with my car.
I need to change my ways because I now know why the world is quiet here.
