It’s 3:07 in the morning.
It feels like a warning
That I have to commit
As luck would have it,
My night hours
That are usually spent drowning in showers
Of my tears
Playing musical chairs
Because of a boy that seems to care
A little too much to bear.
But without him I feel sick
Like I’m leaning on the Devil’s walking stick
For the help that I need
To escape from the executioner’s speed
That seems to be threatening me
Like I’m a political detainee
Without a stich of sense to pull me out of this mess
Like I’m a damsel in distress
That needs saving from the one person I want to be saved by
But I have the will power of a fruit fly
That is attracted to the bright light
Or locked in a jar that is air tight.
I’m drowning in his rejection
Like I’m under a rental collection
Protection
That is only good for a period of time
That led me up a rapid climb
To the top of the peak
So to speak
Until I can’t climb anymore
It feels like the third world war
I’m battered, bruised and broken
And for once he was not soft spoken.