It might be personal how I hate it,
Or it might be how most men relate it,
Or the way women have scarred it,
Or the mockingly-shaped hearts,
How every one "needs a date,"
How the women take the bait,
Can I measure how I hate,
The constant talk of lives and fate?
The only red I want to see,
Is on the wall of S-M-C,
At the Cartage Company,
That massacre was on this day,
And a feast for a martyr,
Was enough the earn the barter,
Of chocolates and stuffed bear,
And twelve roses for the year,
I hate how love can be so fake,
And hate how love can be so blind,
I hate that the truth takes,
Far too long for them to find.
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