(P. b.)
Someone once asked me,
How do you write about love,
when you've never even been in love before?
Endorsed in thoughts;
Carefully calculating and permutating a systematic order,
In which my mind would lay out an answer to his question;
I froze still.
How do I carefully explain to him,
About the sour taste my love life has left on my tongue?
Or tell him that this mythical story of never falling in love,
Is a self defensive system my heart has chosen to take,
On this self destructive part it's vowed to follow.
Guilt streams, abiding deep within my four chambered throne room,
And every night I close my eyes to sleep,
I bathe in it.
It's no strange news, I'm no Saint.
But this Little theory acts like my jail free card,
Just to put my conscience to sleep.
Maybe it's true I haven't fallen in love.
But once, I did;
And my cowardice let it slip off my finger tip.
Struck dumb;
Dumbfounded.
I could never give him an answer.
No answer was enough,
To answer this puzzle I've set for myself;
My biggest self deceit.