Sick and Tired

I'm sick to death of my poetic ramblings. If you can't give me what I want, fine, but if you can't admit to yourself that you want it just as bad and more but are too scared to break things off with him, go fuck yourself. I'm not dealing with this shit anymore. I'm just hanging on by the fingertips here and wasting all my strength trying to climb back up the impossible hill to your heart, while you're having the time of your life. How can I feel good about anything when you're having such a good time? I'm afraid that doing the smallest thing will ruin your fun. You're a big girl. I love you. You can do a million things and you'll always be smiling while you do them. It's not fair that I had to meet you right now. I'm always going to regret not having you as a friend, being incapable of refusing deeper emotions. I love the way you make me feel. I love the way I want you in every way. I can't do it if you're keeping him around. I won't do this anymore. I want the best for you and can't figure out how to play my part. You haven't given me an idea of where I stand, and as much as I hate you for it I'm still willing to let it slide. Fuck that. I'm sick of playing dead. We're too good for this.

What's This?

I think, and the butterflies begin their dance.
Softly fluttering out of sleep, they move their wings in a gentle, inward breeze.
I feel their trepidation and respond; the drum (doom-DOOM, doom-DOOM) beats faster;
an unaccompanied double-stroke against my sternum.

They begin their dance, a frenzied flurry, unsolicited by my worry.
They charge the open air inside the gut and spill their bodies 'cross the sands against my tongue,
and what you hear is garbage, not the "I love you" that will never come.
I'm scared to make you feel worse.

Your "knight in shining armor" awaits you, my lady,
back at his palace, where the Warcraft waits,
and he will sit, alone, and let you stir
when all you want is to have him by your side.
I cannot say I am a better man; I value myself against other men
and measure praise and folly by their merits.
But these wasted words hurt more than I can bear,
though I cannot bring myself to cease their flow.

Perhaps tomorrow, I will find a better view.
No longer will I have to look at you.
I won't have to be the touchy-feely guy,
though I play him off like he's not really there,
and then I can let you go back to your Marcus,
a man I've never met, but a man I'm sure to dislike,
regardless of whether he's naughty or nice
I'll just think you deserve better.

--pour Maria

A Children's Game

One, two, three, four, five;
here I come!

Our game of hide-and-seek is at an end.
You've made a choice and gone with him instead.
An unconsecrated union cut by truer love?
Or a game of 'stimulate me, please'?
Our scoreboard flashed "You = 1, Me = 0" in my head.

One, two, three, four, five;
here I come!

Hands reaching for your face, indulging in
one last fantasy where you might be mine,
I run until the breath has left my lungs,
until my bare feet ache from the sharp rocks
I have endured since first I lay my eyes
upon you.

One...
two...
three...
...
...
...and now you've hid, forever lost to me.

--pour Maria