You Call Yourself

You call yourself a fan when all I can think is fraudulant fanatic. You are given gifts and all you can do is gripe, bitch and moan. Crass complaints instead of compliments. Questioning and quarrelling. There is no gratitude or grace in your words. There was no reason beyond simple generosity yet your greedy little heart wanted more and more. You turned a deaf ear to the offer and called for much more. Before, during and after. Laid before you were the new words from a broken heart, a soul bared still grieving, yet all you want are old words, sung too many times over. New doesn’t excite you. You want yesteryear as if nothing could be better. If you can’t move on why move this way at all? You didn’t read the letters outlining the expectations. Didn’t you know your gifts came with a purpose? Of course not for you only listened to what you wanted, disappointed when you didn’t get it. You embarrass me.
There is a rudeness to you. You wave your paltry collection like some sultan. Did you think there would be gratitude on bended knee, a bowed head murmuring thank you for all you have given? You think your donation is the salve to soothe the situation. The end all, be all answer to the cause.
You call yourself a friend when you don’t pay back debts or walk two way streets. I won’t ever acknowledge you. Unlike you, I walk away from the past when it becomes meaningless, useless, stupid and loud. There is a time and place for everything and you aren’t anything. Not to me at least.
So, call yourself fan. Call yourself friend. Then tell yourself you failed at both.