The Lion and The Teacup

Why can things that we love

Break us down?

Why let anything have such crippling power

Over our weak humanness?

Why do we helplessly cling to such desires?

I am not sure.

But what I love,

Is killing me slowly.

Oh, poetry,

Thou art a cruel and heartless lover.

And I need direction.

I need.

A lot.

That poetry can give me,

But it's holding its secrets all hidden away,

In the codes I cannot crack.

And the feeling this induces isn't that of, say,

A flower withering in the noonday heat.

It's a little more like a the flower that gets

Haphazardly run over by the lawnmower.

What it is to be defenseless.

In the face of violent passion.

Poems.

In my dream they make more sense

Than in my waking hours.

And I'm lacking in a instruction.

Direction.

Something, sadly, I still need.

And I'm a little lost.

A little confused.

And I've been continually turned all

Topsy-turvy

By this guy,

All blue-eyed.

Gah, what does one do?

But don't answer that.

It makes me feel naive.

Let me grapple with these

Stupid vines myself.

And I'll honestly say,

I'd give anything if he would slay the

Vicious green plants.

And free me.

In my dreams

He does.

He's always that one.

That knight in shining armor.

It's all so silly,

You see,

It doesn't make sense

To be this person,

Tangled up in someone

Like this.

It makes me mind swim.

But you are the sea.

And oh, it's awful.

Simply horrible.

There's no escaping an ocean,

Now is there?

Poetry

Taunts me.

He haunts me.

I'll probably just write a poem

About him.