Diatribe of a Wicked Queen

Overcast and dreary, through the mists of paranoia
That you summon with your spite
Your withered, tired hands seek me out
To drain me of my will, and satiate your vampiristic mind
Transmute the joyous rain into a desperate drought

Your words...like threads of razor...
Gripping, grating, gashing, grinding...into my thoughts
I'm a slut? Now, you know that's far from being true.
You merely try to find fault in she who's so much fairer than you.

You're a blight in my world
And I, a villain in yours
He tells me,  she'll let us be...eventually
If we just let this run it's course.
But my defenses erode like mountains, my patience thaws like ice
All my thoughts of virtue are steered instead towards vice...then his voice
We can weather this crisis...this...chrysalis
Then we'll emerge monarch butterflies in a world where noble thoughts suffice.
But they don't. Not here...
Here, she's vengeful and persistent and demented and resistant
Her chains are made of iron, she stalks us night and day, she's a shabby straw that went astray...from her mental bale of hay
That threatens to break this camel's back...with her incessant  I'm scorned  attack
on you, on me, on honor, on ideals...what's more
To outsiders she's the seraph, and I the Devil's Whore.

But, hold...
I'm not the one whose brain's distorted
I'm not the one who with his best friend cavorted
I'm not the one that in the end will be thwarted
I'm not the one who sheds a thousand fake tears
I'm not the one who'll sacrifice the years
Holding on, sitting tight...waiting on something
That I knew was never right.
I'm not the one who's version and the truth
Never do quite jibe
I'm just the one who let it out now
In this festering diatribe

Alright I don't like fairy dust or bake sales
Or basket weaving shows
So I don't like dressing like a librarian
Or being told which way to go
I am proud and honest
And bold and bitter
Tart and tingly...not big on mingling
But at least with me...it's never a show.

Get thee hence into your little digital world
Among the ogres and hobbits who lack substance
Fighting wars with e-mails and playing Mata Hari with google
That is, when you're not posting pictures of yourself crying...with your cat.
On the internet.

Pity me, pity me...it is the martyr's cry
Such a pity then, that this  martyr  does not die.
Harsh words in this, my diatribe...but you've hit us low
You can't let go...and in my heart, it's past high tide
I still find it so difficult to accept
That even though we've never met
I hold for you, the deepest contempt.
So, fine...

If you want to play Snow White, I'll be the Wicked Queen
You'll cower in fear as I rise to rage's call
And feed you poison apples 'til to your end you fall.
That's what you want, isn't it?
A villainess...to put to death your cowardice.
But rest assured, in this tale, the princess stays asleep.
And it's the Wicked Queen who in the end will keep
Her prince, her dignity, her life...her pride.