An oh so logical psycho’s unfair WORE

She seemed to clothe her love as real 

preoccupation: as if an occupying 

force was meeting an

invading rock, of rather salty demeanour 

that is.

And even though he still

felt she meant well,

whenever he was clearly well,

she clearly made him feel damn

bad.

It was warfare cloaked as undying love: 

an oh so logical

psycho’s unfair wore:

a wore that wore him down

to the pieces and bits of

always feeling [a] shit.

And so he points to the get,

the get she’s become, through no

fault of her own he judges quite yet, and

maybe it was his, actually his, 

and maybe it

was, and maybe it will

always be, and maybe it is right now.

And all these games, and all

these shames, and 

all these violent shawls and

shakes and slates never clean, and

nothing ever done seemly 

at all: nothing seemly nor appealingly 

grand: just a band of handy excuses

and wearinesses, and no laughter for him

after the battle within.


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