I write and I write,
I love and I love.
It all just seems to go to waste.
My love is worth nothing -
I’ve yet to hear the words, a gesture or something.
My love must have a foul taste.

Nobody sticks around long enough
and the lonely breaks me down but I’m tough -
very tough but certainly not good enough.
I write and write and hope that perhaps one day,
things will go my way, and she will love me the same way.

I am a human who deserves to be loved,
and I am also a human who has not lived through such.
I yearn for love but also my own end
because I must surely be condemned.

Nobody has ever loved me like I love them.