Perhap, I search to deep for love,
And in the searching lost my way. I who gave freely all my life,
But now am ancient, dried out, still unfulfilled.
Perhaps, I who have searched to feel its truth have got it wrong.
Where I have spent my time in craving gentle, truthful words,
Instead I should have focused on the rutting and the fuck.
Perhaps, I should have seen the worth in wallets full not pauper’s hearts,
And sat instead in marble rooms in fashion modern and never want,
Instead of choosing worth, perhaps, I should have chosen money.
Perhaps, that’s all there is to love. Security in being owned and fucked.
Held as a trophy in some gilded cage, high over the city there a prize,
Not willing to be dressed in rags and work for bread and know the cold.
Perhaps, I got it wrong and search for what felt right when I said “love”,
Instead of being practical and muting heart for all my wants,
For I have lost my youth and strength in searching for a one who loved me.
Perhaps, now I am gray and tired I should just lay upon the satin sheet,
And be the very thing I hate but know will grant me all I need,
And looking in the mirror say that it was worth the death of self.
Perhaps, I should now be the one to guide the young romantics that I see,
And tell them truth to denigrate themselves for wealth, position, house,
To bite the pillow if it means that they can live in comfort.
Perhaps, I should just stop and say that love is not a gift for me,
And find a quiet place to live, alone and grateful for my search,
And dance with all the ones I tried before I pull the trigger now.
Perhaps, some day,