More To BoreMature

Don't dare thank me for the memories,

To add to your inconsistent amories.

This ain't some Fall Out Boy song,

I think it's just God damn wrong!

 

Don't savour the flavour,

Of another sexual favour.

Don't give yourself but another bird,

But that dirty, vulgar turd.

More, more ,more!

 

You and your best friend had a deal,

Far from anything God damn real.

He called you over, to dance in the clover!

And platonic, one-time benefit,

Of your sick and twisted friendship grit.

 

First it was one scar on your arm,

For every parent that'd come to harm.

But now it's one for every bloke you'd stroke!

Dare to carve me in...

But that's a wall you didn't break!

And that's why you heart does ache.

 

Five are the days of clothes that block the door,

Thrive in the ways of those that whisper, poor,

Tell you he's wrong, a worse choice than me.

 

I disagree!

He's perfect, see?

Your mirror image, the tongue on your cleavage.

 

And you warned me off my shadow,

Of bold and brazen meadow.

One of them, your friends for not,

Men who want to break what you could not.

My opposite, yet not malign.

Oh, that bottled wine.

 

He would put me in a treasure box,

Like the pelt of some dead fox.

Feed me just a box of cheerios,

High up on a shelf.

Only let me out for fellatios.

He said it himself.

Kinda creepy, no?

 

Woah!

I'm not some look-alike's trick, no.

As feminine as I may seem,

I don't even play for his team.

 

Off I went to that red-headed actress.

'Cause you're nothing but a vile seductress,

With no charm. No heart. Nothing but wanton lust.

Thrust. No trust.

Bore, bore, bore!

That's my dirty, vulgar word.

 

Boredom to my heart.

The End

6 comments about this poem Feed