And I suppose that it is funny,
in a macabre sort of way
how we all forget the tale of Prometheus.
He who thought to bring gods level with men,
with a simple gift.
Yet his gift was one with no equal.
He gave mankind fire, that in turn gave us life,
and with life comes love, compassion, humanity.
But what did he recieve in return?
Thanks to his act of love
for his adopted progeny,
Prometheus was chained to a rock, destined
to die once every day.
His instestines,
set to be disgested by an eagle once a day.
His pain unrivaled,
for his original sin shed
light on our existence.
And for this, we write no songs,
we hold dear no poems,
we hallow no ground.
His flames gave birth to us,
and here we are,
choking on our own arrogance and hate.
So I suppose, that
in a sense Prometheus was the first nice guy,
who finished last.
Because being the Prometheus,
means there shall be no songs sung of you,
no poems written for you,
and you will be eclipsed by others.
Your deeds will go unloved,
your accolades will go unnoticed.
The world is a mean place,
and however cruel it is,
sometimes being and doing right
gets you nowhere.

Seven months wasted, because when I think
Of us, I think of the day you
Told me I wasn't thin, and the nights
You would tell me to leave you alone
And the next mornings where
I was expected to be in your bed
Followed by the day
You dumped me because of a
Pregnancy scare,
And how I was always too
Childish
Or how I wasn't allowed
To hang out with other boys
The day I dyed my hair, you said you liked it better
Before, and when you got mad
Because I didn't want to ******* right when
You wanted it,

So when I think of
You,
I think of seven months wasted
And no, I don't smile

Do people really know,
Are they just afraid to be alone?
How long does it take to figure,
A month, a day, more than a year?
Can you tell the moment its real?
Is it something you see, or something you feel?
People use the word in excess.
Would you still be in love if there was no ***?