Exiting The High Road

I have gone as far as I can,

I’m parking my four wheels.

The high road is behind me,

Hear my brake pads squeal.

I wasn’t raised a welcome mat,

Your slimy feet to wipe on,

Or garbage to be thrown at

Forever spit and dumped on.

Who made you royalty anyway?

A crown upon your head?

Caustic, low-blow comments,

To me you’ve always fed.

It’s over now and I am done,

Pulling the proverbial plug.

To you, your face I’m saying,

You’re a sorry, abdominal thug.

So, look into the mirror,

You're all the things you've said.

Out of here you loser,

My feelings for you are dead.