Glass clouded with Hemlock's breath,
with a crunch I step unto
and revel in the sight of death
so sweet, compared to bitter you.

How come to be thine absurdities,
by such reach less grievous than mine,
that forty years command these keys,
find far too long my waiting time.

Were I not some product of yours
perhaps you'd scoff, but never pay,
yet unto me, your anger pours --
'til broken, I am gone away.

And how I long to make escape,
eighteen, teasing, beyond reach,
to let my life take its own shape,
you who won't learn, can never teach.

Here I brush at poison'd glass,
a shard away from breathing free,
step cruelly on the charred grass
but no more shall you step on me.