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