I keep getting kicked in the face.
I'm not sure if its anything I did wrong
or if it was a gap in my defenses
I might just be too abrupt
too direct
too used to headbutting feet to solve my problems.
I'd scratch my head and nonchalantly tell you
I can't help it.
I have a high IQ,
but I tell you
sometimes I can be pretty stupid.
...sorry.
Well, I'm not sorry for how I feel.
I know I should stick to my good intentions.
Not to rush headlong into a blind corner.
I'm tipping the soufle'... I know.
Putting my cart before my horse.
Sorry, I said to wait, I said to know you
backwards
forwards
memorized
That's kinda difficult when you're so used to getting kicked in the face.
I'm not asking you to love me.
Okay... I am, but I shouldn't.
It's that pesky dichotomy of mine flaring up again.
The part of my soul that wants you is certainly louder.
The part of me that does the right thing,
through the right channels-
I think is on vacation this week.
Sense.. reason...
they tend to take a backseat to agonized passion.
I'll do more to shut him up. I promise.
The last thing I want is to make your life difficult.
The last thing I want is for you to be unhappy.
Course
the first
thing
I
want
is
actually a cheeseburger and some cranberry juice would be lovely right about now.
As I offer to undress you with the left hand
I ask you to tell me a your life story with my right.
It's kinda counterproductive...
so what do I do?
Eliminate lustful ambition?
Squelch cherubic Eros with a down pillow?
Cherubic eros... who the FUCK talks like that?
Here's a thought, perhaps the first one I've had all day:
Why don't I cut the word play, the metaphor, the tragic melodrama and overpaid actors of my farcicle life down to a single statement-
Why don't I listen to your smile more,
and my gasping heart less?
I want to do what's right,
but... bear with me if I struggle?