I write about love like I have a clue about it’s strings.
A musician rejected by his own instrument.
I’ve heard rumors of all the joy and butterflies it brings,
I give this love thing a try with no improvement.
Seated on the couch, I could feel loneliness clutch my heart,
The pain in my chest and fear of potential tears,
Worked together, broke my parts, no longer could I Jumpstart.
But I had lovers – generous killers – transient gears.
My cursor has moved alot. Like love, my words have left me.
I feel like a desolate waste, too sad to try again.
Oh my life, spare me a little. On the ground is each knee.
I miss being ‘just a tease’. I want it. I can’t abstain.
Love has murdered my brain, yet body and soul still seek it.
I have been a plane and kissed the clouds. I’ve broken a wing.
Or rather, it has been broken. Head first towards a pit,
Is my only destiny. I’m quite tired of being.
“Don’t call the water that gives life to your garden poison.
That’s why you choke, because in its hands you’ve placed the harm.
Love is not for the one who dwells in self-comparison.
But for one that endures both the burn and the fun.”
Though wrecked, my ship is anchored, though broken my heart still beats,
While I live and have it in me, ‘fore I sink in the deep,
I’ll try again, never cry defeat or give in to fits.
For the hearts that share this love, may they never, on it, sleep.