Poetic State Of Mind

The Situation…

I can’t escape the allure of love,
What’s different?
I’m still that boy who can’t get a decent commitment and somehow all these women I pitched myself to either got married or pregnant so I guess this is;
the consequence of pulling down all my fences,

The thought of giving a chance was distantly remote like lost relatives,
I wallow in this pool aware of my misgivings,
Aware that I am not the problem,
Aware that my situation is not as a result of men being trash but rather women having higher expectation without a pinch of patience,
Why bother?
I too feel the need to acquire a tough skin,
Writing this piece currently I feel like my insides have lost vim,
Like a summer morning Beijing heatwave with no winds,
Humidity at the brim and I wonder if my needs will come to fruition in this life of sin,

I remember how it felt making ones heart melt,
Stringing words together just to appreciate her irrespective of background, tribe, religion, physique or the weather,
Those were the good days now even more I could fuck up a good thing,
I could fuck up a friendship without having shown intent from the beginning,
I guess I’m a fucker-up for being a gentleman and doing the right things,
So what sense is there in finding that substance that seem to make the world a better place to live in,
Misconceptions of an insecure mind triggers emotions of discomfort from within,
The blame game, fast brakes on routes that bear no ramps nor curves,
The prosecutor with some nerves has the jury thinking it’s the defendants fault for her coziness around him,
Yet the real victim sits guilt stricken in mind but not arsed in body for the wool being thrown over the eyes of men and women,

If I had a wish it’s never to feel like this anymore,
Tear up the board because the score show more losses inflicted by no fault of mine,
Helpless romantic I am but for the longest time I’ve been helpless to these women that don’t seem to have my time,
Women that conjure petty excuses in the name of “you’re such a nice guy, but you deserve better”, synthetic modesty is the new guilty pleasure,

I’ll be damned if I allow this to go on but my words lack conviction and my soul is a slave to this locomotive that steam rolls on,
My desires know no wrongs so I’ll be a pitiful bastard that keeps singing these sad songs over a glass of whatever concoction my liver decides to guzzle on,
Maybe some day I’ll turn my wrongs into rights,
Some day I’ll have the courage to fight,
Till then my lack of foresight will seemingly be both my strength and my kryptonite,


I’ve lost the plot haven’t I? 


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