Dying To Leave
People are fickle
A bothersome tickle
You open the door
To wind up in a pickle
A dreaded half smile
They stay for a while
You’re too polite
And in denial
Instinctively nice
Prone to sacrifice
It gets out of hand, and
Infests you with lice
Your genuine heart
The tip of the dart
That punctures your skin
And pierces your heart
You’re better alone
And crave to be home
Which is why you avoid
The dreaded phone
When put on the spot
It’s as if you’ve been shot
You do as expected
What I’s shall you dot
Which explains your dismay
Too quick, to obey
You’re dying to leave
While agreeing to stay
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