The wooden step
is rotten wet,
ready to crack,
and drop me flat.

Still, I try
to rise
and follow
a feminine
form.

Desire
inspires
me to
aspire to
something
better,

while she plays
and lays
with all
of those
bad boys
in ***** clothes.

One little sentence
one swift text,
one foot up
onto the next
rotten step,
and I fall
farther down.
  
I try
to be
better then
the current me,
but I am still
the back burner
boy toy.

Is this love
Or an obsession
that takes possession
of my peaceful disposition
leaving me *******
and heart broken?