It was fun—celebrate it while it lasts.
Savor the moment, hold it tight.
Because once the final grain of sand falls from the hourglass, it’s my turn.

You can run, you can hide—
But I’ll find you.

You might **** me, strike me with a baseball bat,
Bury me alive, pull the trigger if you dare.
Drown me in a tub, hang me from a tree,
Burn me alive, stab me, stake me—
I might die, but my conscience won’t.
I might fall, but karma never loses.

Let me share my timetable—my plans, my desires.
You can go against me—I don’t care.
Bury our friendship, but first, do me a favor—
Help me find my concern.
It’s missing—maybe it ran off,
Or maybe it’s hiding because, honestly,
It doesn’t give a **** about you.

But hey, don’t be too bitter—
Even a bitter gourd might taste sweet,
Because you’ve already stolen its place.

So when this poem finds you—good.
I’m the writer. You’re just the reader.
And here’s the truth—
You can’t rewrite my words,
But I can insult you all I want.