The Emotional Gun
Oh, I know this game,
Ive played the same.
Its t*t for tat and one more.
Its called sorrows Blackmail
And at this I never fail.
But your face evens the score.
You b;tch and moan,
Like some old crone.
To guilt your point across.
And often it works,
With your pitiful quirks.
And there, I stand at a loss.
You point that emotional gun.
For profit or for fun.
And Im there in the cross hairs.
It fits so easily in your hands.
Now what are your demands,
Before youre cruel weapon flares.
I duck and stand strong
For only so long.
But you aim for the heart.
I bob and weave
For the exit to leave.
I should have seen it from the start.
So I formed a shield
In hopes youd yield
But it offered little resistance.
So I removed my heart
I cried at the part
Now immune from your persistence.
Now over is the game
And its still the same.
Its not who wins or looses.
Its who looks the best,
So give your gun a rest.
And time for us to l**k the bruises.
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