Nothing left but wishful thinking.
Tears denied by forceful blinking.
Drops as clear as what I thought,
Cloudy dreams I never sought.
I would play every cliche,
I would say,
All of the things I could glean,
then I would wait,
and call you my soul mate.
What a game I could play,
filled with glorious mistakes.
Judgments of love based only on face.
I would date all of the things,
that happened my way.
Once, perhaps twice, then wander away.
I hate to be honest,
but you’ll hate anyway.
No matter what excuse,
Optimism has no use.
I really thought I’d be better at this by now.
I’ve gotten worse.
and it all makes sense if there’s nothing left.
It has occurred to me to be like one of those.
The clever ones who sit alone.
Clockwork letters punched with pretty fingers.
Empty words that rarely linger.
Should I set a table in these places?
Filled with trendy poor disgraces?
Dare I call my own words art?
And let my plain words play the part?
A dollar, no, just name your price.
My mind will make the sacrifice.
What a bargain you could offer.
If you write and never suffer.
I could make that desk tomorrow,
Built of bad decision sorrow.
You’d wonder, after, at the cost,
When those words are what you lost.
A poet paid is but a cloud.
A shining sun rarely allowed.
Nothing is lost if nothing is in it.
nothing you have could make me finish.