TryPoe

          The womens in love.          The womens a fool.          The mans a lathario.          Acts like a tool.             He'll love her,             he'll leave her,             he'll try to decieve her.          She thinks he's a god,          can't see he's a dog.          He's bad for her,          be glad for her,          she's not his wife.          Couldn't handle the          stay at home          buttoned down life. And          all the women he has,          hanging on in his life,          you just know they will          put up a terrible fight.          Move on while you can          don't yield to this

      a roughtime continuum      a no spirit minion      run around tin man      steamrolled by opinion      flattened      it's a pattern      a choice with no choice      a serious decision but      the words have no voice      no thought of their own      to be accepted      or rejected      a clone of our times      a distorted reflection      handed down to your mind      a number      one more number      an x on the line      a bad design      it's a sign      a sign of our times      a 21st century      man-made disease. (the lack of punctuation is intentional)

               This is not about me               it's about my words               So am I foolish               handing over me?               What will stop you               scraping up my words,               making neat rounded piles               to fuel the fire               of your doubt,               inflaming the spark               between us,               worse,               you won't sort the nouns               from the verbs               they'll all be tangled,               broken and dangling,               incoherent and hysterical               seeking the place               they belong