Feeling emphatic about it, not nearly ecstatic about it, sick of the static about it.
My disposition about it.
Impotent and unfit around it.
I’ve yet to be deflowered, and bound around it.
Love doesn’t escape me, I’ve never found it.
Terrified of the hunt and to bound round it.
Sickening feeling of being desperately unfit,
Or fooling out words ill, dealing a faulty hit.
Abandons me balled and crippled deep a pit.
So below all the others that’ve found it.
I weep like a widow, from the fear I’ve of it.
Being behind and unable to climb out the pit.
Unable to recover, and set it a lit.
I drool over girls, and daydream about it.
Not *******, just connection, not a ***.
Overthink and cherish common chat spoke bit.
Cause contact very scarce with the opposite.
Used to be able to ignore the itch till it quit.
Now it won’t seek absence, I can’t scratch it.
Not without a better half to help quench it.
I’ve been quarantined from it.
Around friends but so alone I must hold it.
Not one to share my depths to within it.
Not one to grasp or be grasped around it.
I can’t escape shriveling inside while I sit.
Thin drive, all dried up, apathy uproots it.
The bean’s growth makes me need it.
Need stalked so high, I’m in orbit.
No idea how to approach it.
I’ve known no one deeply or because of it.
Been alone for 18 years, I see no end of it.
So examine me an alien, as I continue to float farther away from first contact, with no research or knowledge to communicate with the opposite.
