You are gold Mr Irule

"Zeezee the Troll"

Zeezee talks like she’s read the script,

Every word laced with ego and grit.

Stares you down with that smirk in place,

Fake sweet voice, but a cold, hard face.

She plays it slick, always on the take,

Twisting truths just for chaos’ sake.

You blink once — she’s flipped the scene,

Then blames the mess on someone mean.

Backstabbing’s her favorite sport,

Turns friends to enemies just for court.

She’ll laugh while tossing you under the bus,

Like loyalty’s something for fools to trust.

Manipulates with a master’s hand,

Builds fake bridges on shifting sand.

She plays the room like she owns the air,

But nobody’s fooled — we just stare.

Thinks she’s rare, thinks she’s deep,

But her drama’s loud and her morals cheap.

No divinity, no special role —

Just another mouth, just another troll.

She puffs her chest like she runs the yard,

But cracks show easy when life gets hard.

Egotist in a worn-out shell,

Living like lies don’t leave a smell.

So when Zeezee starts her daily show,

We let her rant, we let it flow.

No need to fight, no need to roll —

'Cause karma walks slow… but it knows the toll.

AMBITOUS (LOWER TIER LOVE LETTERS)"

HE CALLS HIMSELF AMBITOUS —

YEAH, SPELLED WRONG, ON PURPOSE.

SAYS IT MAKES HIM FEEL DIFFERENT.

SAYS IT MAKES HIM WORTH IT.

WRITES IN ALL CAPS LIKE HE’S YELLIN’ FOR LOVE,

LIKE THE WALLS AIN’T ENOUGH, LIKE GOD’S UP ABOVE

AND MIGHT FINALLY ANSWER IF HE TYPES LOUD ENOUGH.

"I NEED A SNOW BUNNY." HE SAYS. "I NEED IT ROUGH."

BUT HE DON’T MEAN VIOLENCE —

HE MEANS CHOKIN’ ON WORDS,

MEANS WANTIN’ SOMEBODY TO LEAD HIM, TO HURT.

SAYS, "I WANNA BE HELD BY SOMEBODY WHO'S COLD,

A WHITE GIRL IN TIMBS, MAKE ME DO WHAT I’M TOLD."

DRAWS LITTLE HEARTS IN HIS NOTEBOOK PAGES,

FILLS 'EM WITH NAMES FROM OLD MAGAZINE STAGES.

"PLAYBOY," "COED," SOMETHIN’ HE SAW

BEFORE HIS MIND WENT LEFT AND HE BROKE THE LAW.

SPEAKS SOFT SOMETIMES — TILL THE CRAZY SLIPS THROUGH,

TALKIN’ BOUT SOUP LIKE IT'S BODY FLUIDS TOO.

TURNS THE MOST NORMAL INTO SOMETHIN' OBSCENE,

SAYS, “YOU EVER CRY WHILE CLEANIN' A LATRINE?”

NO ONE ASKS. BUT HE TELLS.

LIKE IT’S PRAYER. LIKE IT HELPS.

LIKE IF HE WHISPERS ENOUGH,

SOMEONE MIGHT CARE.

HIS CELLMATE MOVED OUT —

SAID THE NIGHT TALK WAS TOO MUCH,

THAT AMBITOUS KEPT HUMMIN’ AND ASKIN' FOR TOUCH.

NOT IN WORDS — IN HIS EYES. IN HIS SHAKIN’ HANDS.

IN THE WAY HE’D SAY, "I MISS BEIN’ TOLD WHERE TO STAND."

SAYS A SNOW BUNNY'D FIX IT.

"THEY GOT THAT MEAN LOOK,

BUT DEEP DOWN, THEY JUST WANT A MAN THEY CAN COOK."

SOME LAUGH WHEN HE TALKS. OTHERS LOOK AWAY.

BUT HE DON'T STOP — HE GOT LETTERS TO SAY.

FOLDED LIKE PRAYERS IN A WORN-OUT SHEET,

WRITTEN IN CAPS, SWEAT-STAINED WITH HEAT.

"I’LL CLEAN YOUR BOOTS, I’LL LICK YOUR FLOOR,

I’LL BE GOOD IF YOU JUST SHOW ME SOMETHIN’ MORE."

IN THE PIT OF HIS MIND, HE AIN’T LOCKED IN A CELL —

HE'S ON A LEASH, IN THE SNOW, UNDER SOMEONE ELSE’S SPELL.

A PET WITH A NAME, IN CHAINS THAT FIT RIGHT,

DREAMIN’ OF A BLONDE WHO’D COMMAND HIM AT NIGHT.

HE’S AMBITOUS —

WRONG SPELLING, RIGHT FEEL.

WANTS TO BE OWNED.

WANTS TO KNEEL.

WANTS TO BE LOVED IN THE WAY THAT AIN’T REAL.

BUT INSIDE THESE WALLS,

EVEN FANTASY'S STEEL.