SHIT.

I thought I'd write a poem and a pop-song. While the poem is out, the song still stays inside. Here's what I had to say, and I don't have to say anymore, for it's self-explained. More than sufficiently.

It irks me to see you fade,
when a while ago
you were all that I wanted,
and the hours that passed,
and the parts of me you passed,
giving some, taking some,
turning you into something I wanted
only to be rid of;
a breath of Frankenstein.

Yet you give me pleasure:
of riddance; of relief;
if rejection does to you
what it does to me,
how come you part so quietly,
letting yourself be drowned
by music, by words
that I hum if I don't hear;
of a love song
that I fought hard to learn,
and forgot in a flash of joy?

Are you sinister, though?
Do let me know,
so I could then believe,
that you look at me with disgust,
the same disgust
with which I look at you now,
before I close the door,
and turn around and walk away,
never to return, until I'm full again.

But it matters not,
whether you are or you aren't,
for either way,
I still get to learn from you,
my most crucial lesson:
that I should never do to her
what I do to you;
that I should never dream,
for dreams aren't dreams,
when they come true...