Wicked.

In the middle again, I found myself caught between evil and good. To grandmother's house I go, as I don my cape like Red Riding Hood. Unbeknownst to me, you were always the wolf, so big and bad; the little boy who cried lies, as hot tears stream endlessly onto my writing pad. I sat in the corner and pulled a blade out of my depressing pie, crossed my heart like hot cross buns, as I watched you stick a needle in my eye. You are the muffin man from Drury Lane who fed me cakes full of delusion and drugs, poisoned and delerious as I tried to trade them in for hugs. I left a trail of crumbs in the hopes that I would find my way home soon, pruck my finger on a loom, as I anxiously anticipated the arrival of someone who could make me swoon. This little piggy had dignity, the other piggy had none, as I hoped in my heart of hearts that I would stop tricking myself into believing that you were the one. Even Mary's little lamb would refuse to keep you company, misery will turn the other cheek as well, on your tainted tragedy. You tried to bury me young yet I rose from the dead with resilience running through my veins, consistent as my blood is red. I take my communion, drink thirstily of my wine, and eat my Christly bread. You were the spider that sat down beside her, devoid of logic or reason, with blood full of cider. You granted me three wishes, selflessly, I made them all about you as that had become the trend. Our life was filled with make believe, we were the most skilled actors as we continued to pretend. Like Bo Peep, I lost all of my sheep, yet my will to survive remained. I caught your social disease, then cursed myself knowing all along that I should have just abstained. Your green eggs and ham heart made me sick as I choked on the bile that I tasted on my tongue. You were the cancerous nicotine that became my addiction, the cause for my blackened, smoke filled lungs. So I do the right thing, push you furhter away, and find my way back to good in search of a brighter day. No more manipulating me, or monopolozing my time, I have regained my voice, no longer willing to be written into your twisted nursery rhymes. You might be a self-proclaimed Mother Goose, but save your morals for your own time. The fables that you attempted to turn into lessons, were mere double standards and your most critical crimes. All cried out now, I peel myself off of you, as I inhale the fresh air, and see that I am no longer your own personal punching bag, no more subdued little boy blue.