Unfortunately,
I have found myself
at the end of another
failed experiment.
SUBJECT 17 has yielded
no results substantial
in deviation relative to the others.
No exceeding qualities
or aspiring hopes,
only the same shallow devotions,
same tangible-driven emotion.
I have only managed to
catalyze tolerance in the
subjects toward my behavior,
with no noticeable steps
moving toward interest.

Give me one woman
who enjoys Hem like me.
One woman
who cares about literature,
or good music that provides
something deeper than the melody.
I've been looking for too long.
17 times I've given myself up for
the experiment, 17 times I've
stepped out on the limb.
However, the poet's life is not a life
of acceptance, interest, or accolade.
We are tolerated
by the subjects we surround
ourselves with,
until they grow tired
of our late nights spent
with attentions elsewhere.
Leaving us with ourselves,
until we realize that isn't
such a loathsome place
to be.