crushed like a wilted rose 
      half past its prime 
     half past-it's prime 
     my heart and soul are black 
      black with the paint, the paint  
       of your rejection. 
        which tore me 
       like tissue-paper 
      into two, then sewed me back 
      together again with a dull, rusty 
     blunt needle which really wasn't 
    a needle, but more of a blunt-pokey thing 
    and now my life is worthless, not worth anything, 
    something you wouldn't pay for, 'cuz it wouldn't 
     be worth the money you spent on it 
      which would be bad, 'cuz you work hard 
       for your money, and i'm not worth the time   
        it took you to earn the money 
        which is by all rights yours 
        government takes its fair share 
       my love is your hell to live and  
      die in.  emphasis on the die, 
     if i can't have you, well, to put 
    it bluntly (bluntly, like a blunt-pointy  
     thing), no one else can have me. 
     why?  why, you ask, i'll tell you why. 
      because i'm down 
       i'm downer than a down, down, down your street, 
        down person. 
        and it's over. 
       enjoy your pathetic life 
      or whatever short amount of it is left. 

                -Danarchy '94

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