angry poem
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Pay attention.
I’ve got something to say
Figured that this way, you’d listen
People are dying. Mad Men with guns.
What's the point of talking nicely, if you are always stepped over on?
What's the point of asking politely, if you never get what you want and need?
What's the point of being good, if you are treated second-rate?
Cut off my leg and sharpen my bone
I stab myself for every time I thought you wouldn’t leave me alone.
I was an idiot to think that you wouldn’t go
but how the hell would I know
