Mud.

You annoy me
beyond description;
your feigned oblivion,
to a situation…
I don’t buy it;
I don’t like it,
I can’t stand it.
The nerve –
you have postured,
the monster –
I’ve fostered…
The one I wish,
I’d never known…
the days pass by,
with your thorn,
stuck in my side;
you have come,
to epitomize…
all things patronized,
all things I don’t like,
by no means will I abide;
you’re a grown ass man,
not a fucking child,
pick your trash up,
and do not expect,
for someone else,
to do that shit;
it makes me sick,
the nonchalant…
the attitude of:
a fucking blue blood…
perhaps you should,
recognize…
what’s what –
and be on your way.
pull your stick,
and be quick
from my mud.

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