how ironic I find it that words spill so freely from your mouth
and write novels about all the colors of the sky
and assign every single gradient a name
but none to give any care to yourself.
how amusing I find it
that you can lay down on your back
and call out to every star by name
every name except of those you love
how distasteful I find it
that words ceaselessly spill from your mouth
and the novels they write have little value
disparaging sentences of somber strength
three has just as much in common with her fellow human as a floor tile does
two has a self-inflicted muzzle over her screaming mouth
one bears a heart of gold and hands of cold
but who will number four be?