I've written a poem to life. I don't know:
Stay away, I kept saying, knowing not what you brought.
I kept receiving your deceiving letters, they're with the other lot.
I was getting used to those blows from you and I wouldn't mind trading some.
But I couldn't seem to find you. I look for you in the shade, the deep dark slums.
I always thought I'd find you there, you dirty little snitch.
You seemed like the type who'd deal with bums on the ditch.
I couldn't help but admire your thirst for hate.
You were brave enough to keep leaving bait for me right outside my gates.
I took them, I followed them, I fell for it like the rest.
It seems you hate to see a person in his best.
I could’ve ended you, like a snap of my fingers,
But I wanted to see if you’d still linger over this helpless boy.
I kept hoping you’d leave. I didn’t want to be your toy.
You kick us down, you keep us down, you bury us down.
But I haven't thought about why you did it, not until now.