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Chelsea, I wrote this poem for you.
Know well everything I say is true.
What you did was terrible no amount of sorry can heal.
Be happy you got that far, my heart was free to steal.
You did, in fact, steal it.
But what the ******** did you do? Stab it.
You shot, forgot it, chainsawed it and blew it up.
Now when I think of you I want to up-chuck.
Chelsea I hope you see what you left by leaving me.
I loved you so much, but the feeling wasn't mutual, was it Chelsea?
But now we're both alone, and I'm feeling good.
You feeling bad? Huh? Good, cause you should.
You should feel like a monster, one that eats hearts.
Unfortunately for me the one food they don't sell at Super Wal-Mart.
Truly right now I hope your crying.
Honestly right now I could care less if your dying.
Chelsea, I'm glad I didn't go to your party.
Sorry, ********, I feel that emotion hardly.
I hate you now, don't think I'm kidding.
Some say hate is a strong word, I ain't doing any caring.
Know that you ain't getting my gift.
I gave a gift to you, I didn't ******** cuss you out.
What was that? The last two lines don't rhyme.
Don't say another thing, I consider your words a crime.
Chelsea, this is my last verse to you.
I hope my words stick to your brain like glue.
Know that your the fuel to my fire.
By the way, that fire is my rage,. I ain't no ******** liar.
Your not a friend, not to me at least.
Your actually more like friend without the 'R,' your a beast.
Well, it's about time this poem met it's end.
There ain't no ******** way I'm still your friend.
 Butters in the fridge · Sun Dec 20, 2009 @ 10:14pm · 1 Comments |
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