Is it really special
If he tells you your hair smells
like freshly picked strawberries?

Does it make you smile
When he compliments the dress
you bought from some vintage store
where they've got hundreds more?

Would you call it love
If you watched the same shows
and could talk endlessly about them
but there was nothing more?

I'd hate to burst your bubble,
but strawberry shampoo is global,
and that dress won't sell out in years,
and those shows will eventually get old.

Rosé makes me romantic
I guess
Because it's pink
And it makes me tipsy
Like love should
I guess...
And it reminds me of
The wilting pink roses
On my coffee table
Cute love
I guess...
It becomes less than cute
Because
I bought those flowers
For myself
Oh, by the way.

What is the use of a human being?
A human doing.
That loves the thrill of the purchase.
To consume and reproduce.
With total belief and dependence
on the system that keeps
us mind-locked.
When we all can be, and do,
so much more.
But for now the future
lays behind a self-locked door.

Not a time, nor a place, but a date.
The date that changed my course of fate.
The day I was at my worst, not best:
The day my heart was ripped from my chest.

Where, you ask?
On a patch of grass,
For all public eyes to see.
Calling passersby and motorists: here's a show for free.

Already knowing what was to come,
I had time to prepare before the fun.
But no preparation was enough;
All my pride had turned to dust.

Crying and begging; not my finest hour.
Life turning from sweet to sour.
All the while a proud smirk sat,
Upon your face. What a ****.

This world is a swam with
a broken neck,
rotting on the canal side.
While the junk of human
life floats in the deep-dirt
water; The cans,
wrappers and sunken
shopping trolleys.
Rancid under a sun
sweating light.
With all the eyes
that dare not look
on the physical,
nor the metaphysical;
for fear of clarity.

Never label a politician as an idiot;
even if the label is true.
Chances are they still know;
better than they do.

I lock the door when you are watching
Eyes aligned with each twist and turn
Alive with gleam, thoughts of trespassing narrow the way
That somehow, you could decode the complex combination I’ve set

Beyond the facade, the door is glaringly unlocked
I stand perhaps unwelcoming
Waiting for deception to summon the disheartening truth
That somehow, all you had to do was knock gently on my walls

And I would’ve gladly let you in.

I see you, I see the way you're hurt and the way you ache.
I see the way you try to conceive love by just ******* your way into every ***** you see lurking around, you're ****** into this deep cynical lust that you try to come out of, but to where?
to more broken hearts and deceitful lies, to the way you gave in to the perfect touch you allowed to love you.
just to realize, perfection doesn't exist, and that this is just another myth of what they call love.
they call you a cynic, but they do not see that to you this nonsense is just a disease of vulnerability.