Argument

 Well,  I like to be right.

This is what's left of the conversation

after our battle.

I should feel bad about it.

I should let sad grab a hold

of these untold emotions and

let oceans and oceans of

history, where you were

pissed at me,

spill out into tears.

Buckets of tears.

Fuck it, barrels of tears.

To the point

where it just seems queer.

No that's not a gay joke.

And I'm not saying this

just to provoke you or

to stoke you into a fire

That would be the opposite of what I desire.

What I want...is silence.

A blind sense that the world is at peace.

That this beast

has ceased telling me that I suck.

That I stuck my foot it again.

As if every sin isn't displayed

like the song Crimson and Clover

over and over in my fucking head.

I feel dead when I am talking to you.

There's no glue to your thought process

and it's all "you're going to have do this"

Well, I'm tired of this shit!

My head's already broken.

It folds in

when I try to hold on to a thought.

It's wrought with wispy wonders

that it understands are things with mass.

Did you take a science a class?

Do you know what I mean?

Joy is the steam in this engine,

I am stuck on the tracks.

And I can't relax in this state.

And I can't move to another one.

Do I have a son?

I feel like we should have kids.

It's the only explanation for anxiety like this.

For you to ride me like this.

For you to stand so proud

and ride around my hopelessness

like a carnival carousel.

I'm not sure you really understand

what this ride is.

I think your pride is misguided.

I'm standing one foot of the cliff

and your words are the stiff breeze

I need to blow me into the heavens.

There are seven stages of grief.

I think you've given me six.

I may have mixed my metaphors.

I may have peed in that bed of yours.

But that doesn't change the fact

That it's my bed too.

So I didn't just do it to you.

And for that

I bought myself some silence.