You can’t run From the awful things, To the amount of strings You have pinned onto souls In order to puppet them in your own roles You can’t run And pretend you were the martyr— When you were the unconscious starter Who willingly spoke false tales, Forging those untrue and pitiful trails You can’t run And pretend things will get better, Publicly and privately handing out false letters; Where you paint yourself a broken person Who ran away from the victims whose emotions you’ve worsen You can’t run From the fact you took advantage Of an impressionable, young mind—actions you manage To reason as