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