They don't want to build.
That's why I get left in the dusted-over pot.
That's why my flowers are on the window sill.
They were screamimg for water but started to rot.
Teddy bears, chocolates, roses and nice things,
New clothes, dinner dates, lilacs, and nice bling,
Heartbreak, deceptions, secrets being hidden.
I'm a blank piece of paper where an O is written,
Dangling gracefully and distastefully where ever he goes.
Whenever he's bored, out comes the bows.
How much love until he hits the floor?
Better yet, how many arrows do you think it'll take?
Will he find "the one" before his back breaks?
Let's take a quick moment to do the math:
Six arrows so far (about a love bath)
* four missed chances/ (two souls)
But if the voice counts, that's three so... nobody knows.
But, that doesn't stop cupid and his bloodlust of love.
He fires and feeds on me from high up,
Disguised as a dove.
I'm sick of cupid and his love-poisoned arrows.
He hasn't helped me yet; he just feeds on my Bones and Marrow
The first was an accidental post.
I look forward to reading all your Valentine's day poems, they keep my cold dead heart going.