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Fine Language
The weary woman wallows,
raining tears on the parade.
Attempts to bring the sun back out,
kill all hopes of getting laid.
When asked to explain what ails her;
my eyes are met in craze.
"Nothings wrong. I'm perfectly fine."
Sigh, strike me amazed.
Like a psychiatrist with their patient,
dodging landmines, previously marked.
Any hopes, of walking this path unscathed,
were pipe dreams, from the start.
Pretty sure she doesn't have asthma;
don't need an inhaler to huff and puff.
Her cheery mood, never more clear,
as she's breaking all my stuff.
Every draft of peace treaty presented,
were rejected, in stubborn defiance.
When every conversation, falls on deaf ears,
you learn to embrace a world of silence
