Rom-coms did us good, sold us a trap.
Made us believe such things
as unconditional positive regard exist.
Woe to fools.

You live alone, wherever
the journey might spit you out.
The pursuit of happiness is
a passionately desperate business.

I searched,
and searched,
and searched … for a just poem,
a song that understood me,
an epic pic,
a novel with myself written all over it.
I found none.
I saw there that even rejection has rejected me.

I have no type.
If I like you I like you.
The scam called love.
I once loved a girl.
We were happy together …
Let me own up to it: I was happy with her.

Our love dissolved because of lies.
Society hammered their own ideas and truths into me.
I took that part of my life and put it in a box,
in a box which was inside a box inside a box.

I thought feeling nothing would be easy …
or better yet, possible.
I got proved wrong with an F minus.
I’ve been scammed of time.

Oh time.
One glass of wine is never an option.
It’s enough to bring up memories,
and deficit to bring up that
“the sun is shining up my ass” kinda happiness.

One minute you’re gliding along …
and the next you’re fake, smiling
“great! how are you’s”
and crying in them sheets.

The scam called love.