unrequited love is all well
and good in songs
written out as a poem
a sonnet
a ballad
but the reality hurts

the only heart i’ve ever
broken is my own
which, i guess that’s not
such a bad track-record

and what kind of poet
a wanna-be bard
would i be if i didn’t
think or speak with my mind
but with my heart
my love?

but i have grown tired
of licking my wounds
always hoping for hands
that are more steady than my own
to take this hurt from me

and i am so full of love
yours for the taking, always
i’d give you my heart if i could
better with a knife than with blood
but that’s a risk i’m willing to take

i ache, i ache, and i ache
not entirely knowing what for
maybe out of longing
something akin to wanting?
an answer only i can give

but i still don’t know
what the question could be
and so words die on my tongue
afraid of smothering you under
the weight of whatever
this is