IRONIC
Ironic
I die.
I die.
I die every time I hear his voice, his stupid made-up words, his idiotic attempt at comedy, his silver-tongued lies.
I hurt.
I hurt.
I hurt every time my brother, my friends, everyone sides with him, defends him, hangs out with him, and not me.
I hate.
I hate.
I hate the way they flock to him, agree with him, stand with him, with that coward.
I cry.
I cry.
I cry when they care for him, after what he’s done, but they can’t accept me, for who I am.
I want.
I want.
I want to fight, even though I can’t.
I want to kill, even though I won’t.
I want to say what I need to say, what I must say. They won’t listen. They don’t care.
They don’t care for me. Friends, Enemies, it’s all the same.
I stand alone for what I am. He stands with many for what he’s not.
I am everything he’s not, why can’t anyone see that?
I help, he hurts.
I cure, he infects.
I care, he doesn’t. Doesn’t that make me better? Shouldn’t they flock to me?
They condone when it’s not them,
and cry for my help when it is.
And like the fool I am,
I give it to them.
