© Dec 3, 2016. All Rights Reserved.
Fond of her, I bond with her,
Loyal to her voice.
Needing myself is needing her,
For both is my favorite choice.
Blond is her hair, but it isn’t fair.
It comes in many colors, shapes,
And sizes. Then again, it’s fair.
The future escapes.
I despise her countless lovers.
I despise feeling sympathy.
She has too many lovers.
She’s with me. She makes me happy.
Even if she wished me dead,
Her mistake can’t even be a promise.
But she’s the serious type that’s dead.
I couldn’t hold a grudge against her bliss.
Grieving is misbehaved pleasure.
I promise her promise instead.
She’ll always be my pleasure,
But she can’t be dead.
I feel irony and stitches.
I feel irony and stitches.
I feel irony and stitches.
I feel irony and stitches.
No perfection is within me.
Asleep with a gun in my mouth,
I’m her oxygen, but I’m me.
I awake with my eyes to the South.
Bang! The very sound that killed her,
Makes me burst in rage.
Bang! The very sound that killed her,
Makes me criticize my age.
Necrophilia, but I just want her.
I remember when I heard she died.
A gang member shot her.
She’s innocent. She’s my pride.
How that makes me feel?
The irony is dragged into focus,
For it makes me despise what I feel.
I despise trust, for we die. It’s superfluous.
A lover is a lover.
I despise the world, but not her.
See-through isn’t a dark figure.
I miss her. I love her, but she’s over.
I feel irony and stitches.
I feel irony and stitches.
I feel irony and stitches.
I feel irony and stitches.
Isaiah Lawrence 