I'll Write an Angry Poem

I’ve decided, I'll write an angry poem

To commemorate me who does not

Linger stealthily in your feverish words anymore

And in it, I think, I’ll write of

How I hate your muse with burning vehemence

Enough, to poke her reflection in the eye

I’m jealous, but not, a liar to the core

For the want of fanciful love and your

Insidious accented recitations

The nights spent with you were anyway

Drenched in scotch and chocolates

And fallen angels in bathtubs

And when I think of you

I remember stars littering the night sky

Like a benign attack of dandruff

But then I’ll have to write

And knock until my knuckles bleed

For you’ve always made me want to

So I’ll write an angry poem

And you’ll call it all unfair

And you’ll discard it like old underwear.

But I’ll write it for you still, and fill it with

Allegations founded by my satisfying pettiness

And bloody scratches on my wall of oblivion.