By: Linda M Crate

you’re the devil
except you
don’t wear prada
just tennis shoes,
and an attitude more
condescending
than a strutting male peacock;
you think the whole
world should
bow down and serve your
lazy entitled rear—
you are the weakest link
tearing our establishment down
hope you’re proud
you’ve rotted a perfectly good apple
so you could have
a golden throne
kiss my star dust,
and drive into the darkness
because i will tell
the moon to
withdraw its shine from you;
and i will tell all the
stars to live forever so you can never
kiss their shine
in your wicked, conceited eyes—
think you’re so
picturesque
and perfect but you couldn’t
be further from that
image,
and i hope you suffer for it.