Once again I’m single.
Soon enough I’ll start to mingle.
I’m sad things did not work out.
But at the same time I lack doubt,
That I will be alright.
For though I may have lost this fight,
There is a new feeling of possibility.
Though I know there is small probability,
Of finding the dream girl, I am set free,
To look and search and see.
It seems to be the hunt that provides the thrill.
And that’s just a matter of will.
So perhaps I’ll just search forever,
Or maybe just till whenever,
I find little Miss Right.
That should be quite a sight.
Till then I’ll enjoy my space.
I’ll take pleasure in the race,
And run hard even if I don’t expect to win,
To do otherwise would be a sin.
Love never got me anything but misery and pain,
So I’ve broken that chain.
I don’t love anyone or anything.
Whenever that thought starts to take wing,
I remind myself that no one cares,
About how my life fares.
It’s very easy to see,
When I remember what loving did to me.
I will love no one.
With the subject I am done.
I see no reason to beseech,
For that which is out of reach.
Will anyone ever love me?
I wonder as I drift upon life’s sea.
I watch my youth as it rolls by.
And see a stream that will soon run dry.
As time passes on and I stay still,
And my hourglass begins to fill,
I ask myself, what have you done?
That would ever truly win someone?
Your skills are poor,
And once more,
You lack good humor,
And there is no rumor,
Of you being kind or brave.
None of the things, which women crave.
With no outstanding traits on which to lean,
How can I expect to win a queen?
The things at which I excel,
Are those against which most rebel.
Honesty is no longer a virtue.
But is seen only as a means to hurt you.
Women don’t really look for loyalty and care.
But only at the trends that you wear.
Briefly I was once adored,
Till she realized that she’d grown bored.
That while steady as a rock,
I’m as interesting as a sock.
To one’s life I’m a drag,
The voice of reason tends to lag,
And slow the fun in which others partake.
Black and white is what I make,
Of the rainbow which they see.
So I’m an I and not a we.
I am weary of the fury which I feel from day to day.
My eyes grow bleary and I merely can not stand to feel this way.
I say verily that I barely contain the rage which bides within.
I act ferally when once I merrily would have been a perfect gentleman.
Some days I cry and wonder why, it is that I no longer act a friend,
But then I sigh, for tis a lie, that my will I can not bend.
I must take control of the role my patience plays within me.
Or t’will be a tole and my soul will have to pay the fee.
So I’ll be kind and work to find a new way to vent anxiety.
I am resigned, myself to bind, for gentility to gain notoriety.