So, what good does it do
To love the way I do, so imperfectly?
I am looking for a way I have heard of
And it is still a mystery.
I am trying for everyone else
And saying it if for me. Leave me alone
We impact each other far beyond word and deed
I bring my life when I meet you
I cannot be worded and recorded to your comprehension
By probing through the words I choose to share?
Or my actions through the scenarios we create?
How can you assume to know me?
Even you who know me best
How little of my life have you shared
But these few structured try-outs.
How imperfect, we who claim to have such effect.
You, whom I trust to know, can you see the feelings of a harlot
Who gives too much out of compassion cuffed to reluctant compliance?
We spread out our humility like hocked heirlooms
Sharing a depth of tragedy we intend to sound, but only scratch
My surfaces are all scratched and I do not shine
When will he let go of my heel?
I cannot be satisfied.
The connection has been lost and I'm floating somewhere
Wondering what this is all about
But, oh yes,
I am in touch with my pain.
It has been shared too much, like the favors of a whore
When I could keep no longer
When I longed only to keep.
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