Don’t tell me who my friends can be.
Don’t stress at what I find funny.

Don’t tell me when to laugh or cry
Don’t tell me how you know that I
think this or that, or should do a thing,
live in a place, or align my life as you approve.

My choices are for me! Not you!

Don’t dictate how to cut my hair
or accuse me of causing your despair
by malicious intent.

Don’t demand I hate the man you chose
to cause the pain you feign.

I see right through you, lazy, drunk, drug addict!
I see how you manipulate and cry on cue
when an audience is near.

I see the clever way you shift the blame.
It’s never your fault, is it… the choice you make
to be the victim of those you hate,

roping in unfortunate souls close enough
to disagree… anyone who can see the truth
behind your façade.

Of course!

Weep whispered tears, inebriated lush!
Tell them all of my brutality for laughing at the joke
you chose to be about you, when it wasn’t…
as if you didn’t know.

As if it wasn’t obvious!

Carpe diem! And if it doesn’t go as planned, just cry…
cry like a baby until you get your way,

you poor thing… poor fragile little sociopath.