Thursday, December 25, 2014

Is this she?

Help from none, she expects,
Gifts, she hopes to refuse.
Every gesture is suspect,
When mistrust is diffuse.
Not a moment of joy,
Not a nice word to say,
Dripping in sarcastic decoy,
Says, she whiled away.
Of others’ actions, critical,
Never any appreciation,
Of everyone, she is cynical,
Breeding constant revulsion.
Life, it is said, in fleeting,
Purpose is to spread love,
But, all the while bleating
In misery, as she wallows.