Because you don't understand love,
I catch your attention
by speaking your language -
body and verbal.

You could've cried on my shoulder,
but you'd rather cry my name
as if you had ever longed to speak it.
"**** me",
No,
*******
for selling yourself short -
the heart costs more
than a single night
and a couple drinks.

A song from when you were young
tells of "a better touch, a better ****".
Legendary like the disco,
Sweetie, you had me.
And the irony is in the fact
you were never really in this scene.

You love it when it hurts,
you beg to be bruised,
then you wallow in grief
as you cry in the dark
all alone in a bed made for two.
They're selling a product
that's far over-produced;
it's not authentic,
it's cheap.
Be an artist,
be a God,
create,
make love -
your tainted rose petals
could use another coat
and a little tender thought and care.

And just as you exclaim,
"****!!"
as you sink,
admire us high above
floating on Aphrodite's clouds.