Love Songs Suck, So I Wrote a Clusterf*ck

Never had a drum I
could walk to, not one
imaginary metronome,
ticking and talking
to me-

a heartbeat behind
my clothes, a shred of
humanity
where empathy was
supposed to
go.

If I had a way
to word extremist
silence, all
its
different dialects
and how
priceless smashing them
to bits
would be-

well, I’d need
a fair amount of weed
and spirits
to consider
going near that
invitation for PTSD.

I mean,
please, I might be asking
for the drama
staring at sunsets
basking fauna but I’m not
in the market
for any fresh trauma unless

karma supplies
me two days notice,

the closest it
should ever come
to spoiler
alert status,
’cause life is
our mattress and I
don’t want my dreams
to ever
bore me.

If we’re lucky
enough to
awake tomorrow
morning, I’ll consider it

a win.

If I get to live
my whole
life as your
little drummer, on

lonely
winter nights,
years past
the youth
of summer romance,

I’d be
paraphrasing
you
when I pray
to God
my thanks,
but when
trying to sign
my name
I’m always
drawing
blanks

so I leave it
anonymous.

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6 thoughts on “Love Songs Suck, So I Wrote a Clusterf*ck

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