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Literature Text

Mister insecure,
mister whiny,
passive aggressive,

or pony,
heart wrench,
dick wrought,
expected to fuck.

That's what I always thought,
there had to be more,
to those mares,
more than I would know.

More to us than what we carried below,
but no, we're happy
to die in complacency
with torture and sex.

I'm still not over you,
you, fucking mare.
I'm still not over you,
I don't, care.
I'm still not over you,
what you deserve.
I'm still not over you,
what made me hurt.

Mister penis,
Mister balls,
mister mister,
trick man.

Or trick pony,
ass holed,
made for one reason.

That's what I was meant for,
just a device,
a tool for mares,
for them to throw me away.

When I'm not pleased when I'm gay,
I can't be open with my feelings,
they hurt, too much,
for you to care.

I'm still not over you,
wretched, sack,
I'm still not over you,
callous, blackjack,
I'm still not over you,
not time, to forgive,
I'm still not over you,
I'll never, live.

I could tell you 21 reasons why I shouldn't have made this poem.
I know I said I wouldn't. But I did. I lied to myself. Only myself. So who exactly is upset? Me. Of course it is. Not fully rounded yet. Is that 21 reasons, yet?

Note: I am sorry. I am tired. I am hurting myself. I'm working so hard.
© 2014 - 2021 Somethingguy912
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