I listen to the lyrics of the world,
damaged goods and sinners;
think,

"Why?
Why should I care about them;
about what's out there;
about me?"

Then I see you.

All alone, usually.
It makes a sad, sad elegy.

Even though you say,
"Relationships ****,"
I feel differently.

Ballads of love and unity are one of a kind,
conjuring sounds that make you even more euphoric when you talk your sweet talk,
and walk that confident yet conscious stride.

Will this ever be a love,
or will it be a tango of emotions mixed and tormenting?

It's estranging,
feeling this way,
writing of it.

But,
it feels right.

Desperate,
clingy and bizarre;
but right.

No matter what,
I listen to your songs,
in hopes that,
one day,
we'll create our own music.

A realm where we care,
everyone else petty, dishonest devils.
We ended up here for one reason or another.
We'll survive this hell.
Together.

I'll show you a new ballad,
dancing while it lasts to distract from the flames arise.
Show me the meaning and feel of your genius which hides like a turtle roasted for soup.
Let's make our own music,
for atheist ritual,
for you and me,
me and you.
Together.

The one that watches for you,
and you for me,
is right here.
I don't mind being there,
but I'm a Mammon for romance.

Part of my genius, I guess.

I know you prefer handsome women.
But I wait,
like a mare,
that,
for me,
you'll make an exception.

I know it's not what will become.
Life isn't what I desire it to be.
But my heart can't stop wailing and crying like a banshee,
especially when I need you to save it from the succubi of my life.

You probably don't know about these,
my words and thoughts of my own Shakespeare gone tragic.

But,

I hope for this,
for us,
and the life we bring about,
create,
and share,
hand in hand,
eye to eye,
mouth to mouth,
heart to heart.
Together.