Forgive me. I wrote this in a great fit of anger, and obviously it's not one of my best poems up to date. If you want to critique, I'm open for it, but if not, that's okay, I didn't write this with the intention of writing a poem, just to put some of my anger on a sheet of paper.

Prediliction of the poorest kind
Courses through my body, the sight of you
Whispering through the veils of your passionate lies,
The thunder of silence over the telephone line.

But you didn't know that when you blushed
A powder blush, she'd left you for me.
And you will never realize, my dear, 
That she's not a girl, but a whore.

But now you know, when you see me,
That tears of love and clouds of hate
Would never evanesce,  even when you
Lay beside her, but now it's too late.

The End

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