It doesn’t help that you’re a callously ignorant,
self-centered bigot
suckling at the teat of your faithful idiocy.
Don’t judge me like you know;
you’re far too blind to see
the deeper meaning in my faceted quality.
I can taste the scent of your condescending attitude,
cleaved to your self like a woman’s perfume.
Your accomplishments are nothing, gray hair,
and your past a haggard elder
dogging you around
and begging for the scraps of your filthy memory.
You don’t understand the path
from whence I fled.
Call yourself a professional, then,
but the notion is truly laughable
in comparison to the true makers
of this metallic world.
Your inability to truly care for
the temporary charges
placed in your farce of an office
says enough about your character
for me to write a novel
with you as the main focus.

Here’s a thought for you, sir:
Have you ever taken a moment away
from your constant assumption
of my retardation
just to contemplate…

… that I might have a reason?