It isn't often that I vent
in this, a form of verse--
I often find that, oftentimes,
my rhyming comes as terse.
But I can't help it, really,
if I feel you brushed aside
my comments and my platitudes
with one fell blow: a snide.
I hate it when I talk to you--
Hate it more with no reply.
Hate it once, hate it twice--
No restrictions need apply.
So now I sit and listen
to the silent blinking screen.
I watch my dignity ignite
as my morals writhe and scream.
It isn't often that I rant
in this, my wayward prose--
it seems to me that, seemingly,
it's a thorn to would-be rose.
Yet I can't help but wonder
if you really mean what's said;
or should I say, the silence--
for that's what was there instead.
So now I sit and watch me burn--
I fall to windswept ashes;
would you react, then, if I screamed--
assaulted verbal lashes?
I think I'm simply giving up
this picture perfect scene--
And leave to live your own damn life:
a peacock's pompous preen.