I’ve been turning my pain into poetry
And paying ear to Passenger’s pining melodies,
Black letters pour over the pages
As I scrawl my uncertainties.
I’ve always questioned love
Of the romantic variety,
It seemed to live in the realm
Of fantasy and zealotry.
When half of those part
Who join themselves with incantations and ink,
It’s hard to have faith
In the ties that bind or the chains that link.
I know that I am not them
And they are not me,
But sometimes I wonder if we differ much
From the failing majority.
Who sought for love and failed to find it,
Who sought for love and found no respite;
Instead, blindness, madness, insanity;
Insomnia, desperation, adversity.
Of course, love can be pleasant
Love can be pure,
Love can be steady
Love can be sure.
But how can we know if what we have is real?
How can I know if this sound of your voice
That makes me so grateful,
Will not one day make me furious and hateful?
Will not one day make me question my choice
To reside forever in your embrace
And make your tongue my favorite taste?
How can I know if love is true
That total disaster will not ensue?
The truth is none can possess
Perfect knowledge of the future,
But your caress can be
The perfect suture,
For a heart that’s been broken, beaten, impeded
For a soul that’s been sullied with grieving.
Only time will tell if we can make this last;
I’m willing to hold steadfast
I’m willing to give it my best go,
It’s a coin toss
But I can’t seem to say no.