Wilma

I'm tired of hearing

"I'm sorry,"

And I'm tired of asking

"Can you...,"

because you never do

I can't rely on you

I don't want to live

Within the walls of silence

Where two souls never speak

But only sadly coexist.

Power-Washer

 Livid

Why do I have to ask for them to return my shit?

Why aren't they trying harder? 

None of them care about how I feel.

They must think I'm some punk.

Midnight Mass

 Our existence is fleeting,

And soon it'll cease to be.

Like the moon's fog by eve's bay

Just a distant memory.

Actors

 Actors pretend, but don't we all?

What's different, but how far we fall

Pretty Litter

 I don't think

 that pretty woman 

will be as excited

about that

kitty litter

as she currently

appears to be.

Ads

 What do you want me to buy?

I'll do it 

The flashing stripes and bars

Shameless

But attractive

Labor Day Sale?

The poos-daying union member in me righteously grumbles "Aye."

(Proud union member, and I chose to attend every union meeting, from Philly to VA B, bitches)

These ads though, got me opening my wallet, checking for my motorcycle learner's permit, and closing that leather bad boy up, because I'm not contributing to capitalist chaos.

Consume

Procreate

Emancipate customers

Fine

 Totally fine.

Am I solely focusing on the negative critique, the loudest comment that resonates within the soul, or am I rightly justified in being annoyed that I'm the butt of jokes amongst the lady folk?

Suck it up, butternut.