You say I should be flattered
To receive your attention
As if that's all that mattered.
That there's no question
That I would be enamoured
By your affection
That I had now procured.
Let this be your first rejection.
You keep it up, call it determination
That I'll grow to like it
Yet you can't read the situation.
That I just don't like you - not one bit.
Rejected again and again you continue
Because it's not about me, but about you.
Now you're pitiful
So you play that card
It's almost political
The way you act so scarred.
I feel sorry, I really do
For I know I'm not the first
You've done this to.
I wonder who taught you respect
And why you think I deserve less.
You're mad that I object
But you just want me to possess.
YOU ARE READING
Lachrymose
PoetryLachrymose /ˈlakrɪməʊs,ˈlakrɪməʊz/ adjective tearful or given to weeping. A collection of amateur prose and poetry illustrating the inner turmoil. Mainly a dumping ground for loose thoughts and ideas to be interpreted in whatever manner.
