Life of Cards

you're a shit writer

but you make a good muse

because I've been full of fire

and you just lit the fuse

You think I’m inauthentic

I just don’t get the confusion

Then I look at all you have

And I map out that conclusion

You can’t even imagine a life

Not made of mere delusion

You boast that you’re benighted

And I’m sure you’ve been delighted

To see things that aren’t really there

And I’d have given spotlight to the irony

But I have never really cared

Because from what I’ve seen

I cannot even dream, who would

Love a poem saying, “I’m sad, I’m sad, I’m sad”

Five or ten or twelve different ways

You could have shown it to the living

But who’d have been there to see it?

Exploit must be your favorite word

because you do nothing but repeat it

You’d kill a dead horse again just to beat it.

Make the last of these lines literal with my number

I don’t want you to ever text it

I might get lost in one of your sentences

A boring labyrinth without exit

You might say “what does she know?”

But even Shakespeare saw you coming

When he wrote about Gratiano

“You speak an infinite deal of nothing.”