Chocolates, roses, all around,

The smell of lovely charity.

Masses unknowingly drowned

In love that lacks all clarity.

 

Commercials spin me for a twirl,

The hammer quickly drives the nail;

Expecting me to buy a girl,

As if true Love were just for sale.

 

Just one more lie we must believe:

That Love is merely paid-for sex.

In a plan to rob and thieve

They force-feed us these hollow texts.

 

Seeing in a mirror now,

The light that once was bright grows dim.

We substitute a solemn vow

For a cheaply purchased whim.

 

A sickness grows beneath my chest

As culture’s right hand strangles me.

The desperate hole beneath her breast,

Another growing cavity.

 

We crave something deeper still,

What can’t be bought with dimes and cents.

We need more than fading thrills:

The kind of Love that makes no sense.

 

A life without the love that’s real

Is nothing more than wasted time:

A letter’s untouched, dusty seal,

An unauthentic Valentine.