THE BACKSTABBER




I hate it.
I want it to die.
Never in my whole life,
Have I had to deal with what it has done to me.
I've old it no more than a thousand times,
That I hate i for what it has done to me.
I will not stand for this.
Never again will I have to deal with this.
What was it thinking?
Who and what gave it the right to double-cross me?
There disturbs the knife.
As it slowly slips into my back,
To permently imbed into my back.
The more it quickens with its iniquity,
The stronger the thrust gets.
It is like the knife is compelled to do the task.
For my love and trust for it,
Is like my blood trickling off my back onto the floor.
It is just like it,
To when my back is exposed with love and guilt,
Then to strike me in the heart.
Why couldn't it just do that?
It is a little snake in the grass,
That can't comperhend the compassion of its prey.
I hate it!
I hate this world!
I am on my knees,
Dripping in blood,
The pain doesn't go away
till it stops.

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