Good god, tell me

Why is it you try to fell me?

My hands are shaking, my bones are aching

My knees are quaking

But you seem to stand above me, so firm.

Good god, do you like to watch me squirm?

 

I have a list of hopeless romantics

Who deign love a flower, and make themselves frantic

For if you tried to so compare

Love to a blossom in the summer air

Any garden of mine you could find there

Would be unkempt and overgrown.

These thistles catch me, and I moan.

 

There aren’t any cracks in my foundations

But there are jagged holes, and little spaces

Where things were once held and stored up

Places I swore I’d board up

Patches I still can’t let go of.

Holes that fill when I start to pour

And it’s always a little bit, little bit more.

 

And you know that I’m young, I’ll never get enough

My people tap on screens when times get rough

And there is no winning with the ants on earth!

When we all stumble blindly, seeking pleasure, mirth

Professing opinion as law

Religion and God

These scribbles, so raw--

There is no winning

There is no winning.

 

And really, who gives half a damn just who I love

When I’ll always feel scorned by the sky above.

The head acts as a machine, strict, oiled

Crippled only by emotion and by blood boiled

And I find myself wearied by a weary world.

 

It’s all I can do to keep my heart open

My mind unfurled.