The Pulpit of Snide (or when I became very unwell with severe depression and drug dependency, some of my closest friends shattered my heart into a million different pieces by just walking away)

If you think you know the whole story, 

I promise you’ll know only a half.

And within that fraction of my downfall,

only a quarter will make you laugh.

One eighth will be manipulation, 

to feed the storyteller's pride.

The other eighth, your cheap cover version,

when you worship at the pulpit of snide.

I suggest you swallow just a sixteenth,

and pray that you don’t choke.

Because when you do, supposed poets,

it’ll be me who’ll be writing the joke.