Get thee to a nurse,
you're crossing the line,
stay in your head,
get out of mine.

I don't claim you are mental,
I know it as fact,
I'd cheer for your falling
or commit the act.

How you feel glory,
in being a witch,
your words make me vomit,
they make my teeth itch.

For in a world of survival,
I'm losing the game,
a knife in my ear,
when you speak my name.

I have no desire,
but for talking to cease,
less my hatred grow,
and frustration increase.

You have proved naught,
but you hang like a leech,
the simple word no,
I appear not to teach.

I mean what I say,
you drive me to the brink,
go on a raft
or give me poison to drink.

I will try nothing new,
but you i do dread,
I won't drink but
smash the glass on my head.

The voices you add,
make me beg for a mark,
shoot an arrow in me,
and leave me in dark.

I cannot be tempted,
except by the goddess of treats,
Chryseas she is,
I eat all her sweets.

Romance not what i feel,
but a sense of adore,
Whatever she cooks,
I always want more.

I leave you to cry,
with pain in your wake,
I am too busy,
eating her cake.








Penned by my hand on the 13th of Lupar, in the year 601 AF.