You make me sick.
You make me mad.
If you're "the good", I'll take the bad.
I'm fire, you're ice,
so we can't be nice,
my darling, sugar plum, heaven's delight.
Oh, when you're near how much I ache
with a sweet nausea only you can elate.
And euphoria, how much you lie!
A feeling mistaken for "the butterflies".
We call this love. Oh, give me a break.
A sealed box with little room to breathe.
A telephone ringing out into the air.
It's you again. I stand by and stare.
Shall I answer for dronish talk,
empty words for the spineless flock,
or should I be like the narrow twits,
the girls who wish and long for it,
who spend nights crying over you
and days complaining about things you do,
the yearning, the wondering, "fight or flight",
the occasional loss of appetite,
the bloating, traumatic, hysteric nervosa,
the loathing, the needy, unpleasant aroma,
the stalking, to show your true dedication,
endless questions to this conversation,
as if you ought to know every move I make,
what I did today, what I last ate.
Some call it love. I call it obssession,
a marketing technique for women's oppression.
Make up and break up. Just make up your mind.
Don't you dare propose and waste my time!
Silly, neurotic, enthused little boys,
who show the same affection for every new toy.
If this is love, then you can count me out.
I'd rather change face, than live with your doubt.
And the sound of your voice, how it makes me itch,
that lazy drawl into a bottomless ditch.
Is this the true concept of love,
because in all this, I can't live without you dove.
My title is insane and I'm just another victim,
of this thing we call "love", an admirable position.