by Nick Gisburne
I feel the heat, the hate, of every word
The merciless derision of your voice
Obsession, anger, fury, boiling, blurred
In spiteful sneers I see the rage rejoice
What sickness do you stand upon to speak?
What sense is there in anything you say?
Your bitterness is brutal, brash, and bleak
It pours a stain of darkness on the day
You lack the heart for harmony, for hush
Instead, you salt your speech with spleen, with spit
Sadistic sermons, diatribes to crush
Until I bow, and bend, and must submit
You wonder why I listen to your voice
My love, my life, I have no other choice
