Self Hatred and Emotional Fuckery

Who thought that I’d be here again,

Pining, aching,

Longing for a glance,

Infatuated like a child

Convincing myself that I am a romantic

And not some rogue kept awake at night

Without some fresh heart for him to steal.

Too honest perhaps

And lacking the flowers I’d twine about my words

To mask my desires

Behind an eloquent veil.

Shall I compare thee to a fucking summer’s day,

Or call you the girl with star’s in her eyes again?

I don’t even know who I wrote that for

And I am far too cynical now,

Too jaded, hurt, and self aware

To play that part with genuine love.

What a wretched fucking thing I am,

Quick to fall in love

Quick to grow bored

Quick to walk away for some new dangling toy

Like a child only seeking what he can’t have

Or the vagrant seeking only the horizon

And the next hit of some new ever-changing high

Scared to be alone,

Scared to fail,

Scared you will see me the way I have always seen myself.

You are too good for me, too kind

But I can’t ever help myself.