The first attempt at this post earlier this morning was fraught with emotion and a general grumpy mood. I deleted it for fear of offending anyone and have redesigned the notions in the form of a poem. How utterly pretentious of me! Huzzah!
A Tale of Self-Pity and Confusion.
The Book of Love is a riddle to me,
An emotional enigma,
A curious quandary,
Sudoku sex, a palpitating stigma.
I witness others practise love
Bemused, I feel exclusion.
Experiment, I document;
Apparatus, method, conclusion.
My heart doth lie within a maze,
Walls perform their dances.
Intrepid scouts who seek the prize,
Are spurned in their advances.
The ethics of love, a protocol,
I stumble and I fall.
A barricade of untold law,
Society’s secret wall.
Cupid mocks my eager heart,
His laughter burns my soul.
Deep within a void exists,
Incomplete: my whole.
Those confident, heads aloft,
They swagger with aplomb.
Emulate, I cannot do,
I refuse to feign the con.
So paranoid, I lay to sleep,
Clichés so often cited.
In my dreams I find the one
A love less unrequited.
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