in conjunction

still stinging, clinging, overdramatic egomaniac and you’re heading out the door at a four speed no slower than ten. envying the voyerism and never a subtle advance, i want to be the one to spit in your face. your viscera, red and white, dripping, couldn’t be a counterpart to mine, couldn’t compliment me in the least. your latest, less than greatest approach, your aspirations, expectations wouldn’t hold up and your creativity, words in print, lacking. i doubt the capabilty you have to make it out alive. i could compete with you on your best and my worst days & i’m not rooted in angst, but your persistence to prolong, pursue, remain droll. i wear my heart pinned to my sleeve and your presumptuous intent lead one to believe… you’ve always been full of shit.

good riddence & good day