To appeal

I never long for a bitch,

Nor falling in love with a witch.

So am I rich?

I don’t think so.

Reality has no room for such mercy,

Whose fault that is; who should say sorry?

So am I lucky?

I don’t think so.

But he thinks so.

She thinks so.
They think so.

And you think so.

I need not fame.

I need not improvements.

I long for devotion.

I long for emancipation.

I’m not interested to be or look smart,

I hate wearing suits,

Like those business bastards.

They are terrible.

I want to see you two more.

But we seldom see each other.

And when it does,

I see the true distance between us.

No, I didn’t mean to puke,

You got that little something,

Which makes me want appeal.

Fuck grammar. Fuck language.

But I queued anyhow,

So when will it be my turn?