Once again I'm thinking,
All alone in body,
perhaps not so much In mind.
It's fleeting, this shadow in me.
It's not in thee to see the real monster.
You, you know who you are.
Sweet, demented, twisted little girl,
You know nothing of how to work this world.
It's all choppy and crude,
And your words so rude,
as if deafness fell upon your soul.
Your true feelings fell into a black whole.
You're a child, and your self fulfilling proficy
of being a lone and trying to taunt me
Is
no
more.
Happy Valentines day,
You're a whore.

So lets say my hate and rage and physical loneliness put itself into a Valentines day poem. This would be it. Not as thought out and pure as Macen's stuff. But fuck it, I'm not him.