This may sound cliché But I hate you If you can't understand, I will gladly spell it out for you: The motion you create, while waving that huddle of fingers through the tainted air, tells my brain to implode. The folly of your face, when you gape at the world from the outside, hurls my head over the western sky. While I myself cannot tell which current is useful, you sit and dream with the moon, inconstant, and forever defective. You fret over trivial struggles, of male trophies that would just as soon feed you to their dogs. Never to think of the significance that holds us down to the ground, you will weave your way through the threads, always slipping from the palms of good judgment. You will admire your pretty appearance, and hold your own 'truths' to be accurate, now and forever. You sit upon the throne Ecstatic