Shooting Spitballs at the Stars

Poetry About Frustration

So this is what it has come to.
You tell me I'm a second rate artist.
I tell you your hands are to cold.
We fight about the little things.
I wanted you to love me for who I am.
How can you when I don't love me?
I guess it's time to say good-bye.
Tell your new girl hi for me.
Love is a relative term
and we don't relate.

When I was young,
You sat me down
To tell me about the lies,
Like happiness and peace and
Compromise.
And your words gave me life.
I'm older now.
Where are your words
When I need them?
Where are the happy times?
I forgot,
You told me there is no happiness.
Where is my peace?
I forgot,
You told me there is no peace.
Where is the compromise between the pain
And the sorrow?
I forgot,
You told me there is no compromise.
All that is left is the memory of your words
And my anger.
You left me my anger.

And I got me some daisies
to put in some vases
to cheer up the
graveyard
where you lay.
And I got me some roses
to put by the tombstone
to soften the
cold stone over
where you lay.
And I got me a wood cross
to put in the wet ground
to mark the place
in the graveyard
where you lay.
And I got me a new gun
to put in my mouth
so they'll put me
in the ground
where you lay.

Sometimes I get a little bit angry.
Sometimes I don't care.
Sometimes I feel you beside me
with your fingers in my hair.
Sometimes I want to scream
but I know no one will care.

Can we ever forgive ourselves for what we are?
Will we always be slaves to our own freedom.
Our we like our mothers or fathers?
Can we ever change?
What will we pay to become more then we are?
What will the price for our sins be?
When will we finally stop lying to ourselves?
Or eachother?
When will this poem end?