I'm not just angry as of today.
It's not that kind.
It's the kind of anger that is annoying and eating inside you. Pent up anger that no one could come close to comprehending.
It's the kind of anger that makes me want to say "I hate you" when I know that really isn't the case.
I hate what's become of you and how you pretend to see me. I hate those jokes you use to cover up the truth and reality.
If you want an escape go live with the Mennonites or take acid or drown in music's sweet, bottomless reverie.
Don't talk to me expecting that I'll just let things slide like everything you say is okay and never bothers me.
And don't wear a mask with me because I'm determined to see through it anyways.
Don't talk to me with the intention to be polite but be impolite when you disregard me with pity. It's selfish and sick.
And maybe we shouldn't talk at all.
Because I know these arguments don't show that you care.
They only show me how I've always been, Caring.
What is it worth if it means nothing to you?
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