If you're a lover, then where is your passion?
Where is your interest in me, your
curiosity of my affairs?
If you're a lover, then where is your attention?
Any given day, you ignore me for the TV.
You turn and say, though, you burn for me.
Given how you wait to be prompted,
is it hard to imagine I don't feel interesting?

If you're a lover, when's the last time you expressed
at least some minor urge to **** me?
How am I supposed to buy a charade
when I'm the one who must wind the key?
If you're a lover, why do you never write
about me, but when you're sad?
Where is your urge to hold me, as I've held
you cradled for all these years?
Don't you think I ever need protection or intention
without a beggar's plea?

If you're a lover, then why do you forget my presence
until I remind you that I'm alive?

When I look down I know
one world apart
from when I look up.

A world below, more reality
than what I've known of reality
through living since my birth.

One earth, two worlds,
splitting hairs,
scrambling airs,
creating errors,
chastising errs
so much
that nothing's
learned.

Up/Down,
Living lies,
Blurring lines,
Up/Down --

It's not that I don't know
what's actually worth a ****.

It's that I see worth as a curse,
and would, rather than peace,
see ecstasy return me
into the breeze
as dirt.

Is this love misdirected?
Is this care misplaced?
Yes, I believe it.

Stuck.
Addicted to a part.
Black Knight savior.

Is this concern out of line?
Is this connection still wrong?
Yes: I believe it,
and believe it always shall.

Lead. Tail.
Lead. Tail.
Continued as a favor.

After years at it,
I've come to think
I tail because
I've got no one else.

I suppose I consider
every client an extension
of myself, and
I want someone, so badly,

to help.

Hard pang of metal
louder than my
brittle ears can withstand.
Hard ping of wonder
sent, malicious,
from hidden wonderlands.

Cleave
my warm limbs from me.
Rip
my innards from me.
Substitute synthetic
amplification
for my
basic
weakness.