The Season of the Bitch
we as a society are drifting
further away from what we left behind
is this a call or a sign
you wear make up to cover your inner beauty
you pout, scream & moan
you drift along like a loose cannon
planting seeds of disaster
never to prepare for the great here after
yet inside you stand alone
like a dog without a bone
hiding behind the Willow tree
still some beg to differ or may disagree
like I often thin will she be the one to marry me
P.M.S. is an every day battle & test
behind the squeaky wheel
no notion of love in her heart
she can give a flying fart
like a soul drifting apart
yet in every season turns
one soul soars while the other one burns
you base your reality of what is in vanity
your life is a drama based upon tragedy
living in calamity as if its some comedy
you had your place in the sun now your to gone
eyes with spots having holes
taking off all of your clothes
you get meaner by the day
paying no homage to ever bow the knee to pray
but you insist on having it your own way
closed minded zombies in a world torn up in madness
break through the sadness so that you can set yourself free
this is my one last final plea
Copyright © Mario Vitale | Year Posted 2017
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