What is it
that you have convinced yourself
that I have,
that you need so ****** deeply.
I have nothing worth tears,
nothing to give
worth a single sigh.
Nothing
that cannot be found
on the bargain rack,
three for five.
I am not a life preserver
crafted of verse.
I am not a panacea
distilled from words.
I am a fleeting shadow
easily snuffed by a sunbeam.
I am a songbird
frozen, and dying
on a cracked tree branch.
I am worth less
than the sum of my parts.
A bag of organs,
valuable only to the sick and rich.
Rothschild might want my heart,
but it is not as deep a vessel
as you make it out to be.
You can do so much better,
than pathetic old me.