What did love ever do for me anyway?

Who needs the hassle, right?
Who needs the bother
The nonsense
the blather
the constant
feeling of am I good enough for this person?
The lesson
that messing
with feelings
is nothing
but torture.
Our culture
of needing
and feeding
our psyche
of “love me”
so that we
are happy.
It can’t be
so easy
for something
so sleazy
that love brings
like teasing
and pleasing
and upside down
reasons
that she isn’t
seeing.
I’m desperately
breathing
and needing
my words
to mean something
to a girl
that feels nothing
aside from the
dumping
of effort
that’s lacking
onto my back, and
leaving me here
wanting her near
feeling the sheer
weight of her
fabric
tickling my nose
as she leans
on her magic
that stares from
her eyes
and tells myself
lies
its a surprise.
The focus is
LIES!
Thoughts I’ve
contrived.
The things
I denied.
I know its
not right.
But I’m back
where I started.
Dearly departed.
Still brokenhearted.
Writing left martyred.
In pieces
and shattered.
Broken and battered.
I feel like a fraud
End this,
my god!
Onward I plod.
At endless odds
because it
won’t cease
by each corner
it creeps
at the end of
each street.
Shown down
each road.
Each ravenous
avenue.
Laced in
each place.
Stained on
each lane.
Until I can see
maybe it’s not me.
Although I am
skeptical
I can reach that
reputable
status with love
a good standing
above
the place that
I’ve stood
it seems
long enough.
Forget it,
I’m done.

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