For the Man that Hates Everything

The crooked hand and the bee
Shakes through the broken glass
Of the window
Like the mutt out of the rain
Smelly, cut, jagged, wet

I know what I like
And I know what I don’t
And if you ask me
I will tell you exactly that
Then call me prick
I don’t care
Or I don’t want to

Musk-soaked covers
Atop minuscule-y heightened beds
The ticks and fleas will be at ease
If they can be mislead as we are

What a great feeling
To hate everything
And not even know it

There’s nothing here
There never was
Quit dwelling on it
(I’m really not)
(It’s just that it’s been so long)
(This pain has developed into
Second nature)
(I don’t know what to say anymore
When I finally feel no pain)

So just complain

A beautiful gift
For someone else I suppose
Oh, it’s not bad, I’m sorry
Just what exactly do you get
For the man that hates everything?
It’s the thought that counts

(Based around a dream and certain things people like to assume about me. It doesn't flow very well.)