What is it about this place?
Your malignant eyes, your squalid face.
Stagnant breath and rancid life.
Brought death up to my white pickett fence,
smeared on the side of the road in alcoholic overload.
And I still have the best of you.
And I'm suturing what you've put him through.
But he'll be fine, heal with time
and I'll continue to spit on your grave.
That's what it is about this place,
it's the bed you made.

10/21/2009

Author's Note: ???

Posted on 10/21/2009
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