I am persistently pessimistic,
a poisoned little poet,
and my tears are as blue as I will make you feel, if you spend long enough in my orbit.
Nobody understands me, but Morrissey, but I hate him,
and I’ll hate you too, until you text me back,
leave you on read for ten minutes,
so you can’t read between the lines and realise that I’m desperate for your attention.
I astral project away from my problems,
but I always arrive back to remind my rain showers that they will one day end.