Master of the Self-Sabotage (a venty, un-poetic poem)

I throw rotting red fruit from the stands,

when the actress does poorly,

or when she does well. 

I tell her go home, 

get a life, 

stop living through 

elaborate masks, 

old, worn, costumes,

everyone sees through her disguise. 

And even when convinced, 

I know she knows the truth. 

I wrote to you, 

friend,

sang to you,

I told you everything I thought

you'd need to know.

I laid out a history of

my own mistakes,

and you have no caution.

Dear, I tried to tell you,

and this is my greatest skill,

the only thing I've mastered, Love, is 

procrastination and self-sabotage.

I'm great at it, you see, 

The solution always seems, 

remove the disguise,

the last second, 

take the rose-tinted glasses from your eyes,

look at me in every dark and blinding tone,

assess me without shielding yourself

from the danger that you're in. 

There are no UV-rays from me, 

but it's been said, that 

one may get burned when playing with fire.

Blazes get out of hand, 

ravage the land that a 

tiny match might touch, 

and it might enter the theatre, 

where the actress takes the center stage,

and it seems the ceiling opened up, 

the gasoline she left on the rafters will fall, 

and all will go up in flames. 

Oh yes, 

I see you in the front seats, 

and you were watching her. 

I'm sorry you got into this. 

It seems we'll all get burned.