Just a Writer

I know I have some sort 

of twisted messiah complex, 

a Jack Shephard need to save 

(remember Lost?)

He told me yesterday that 

she’s seen a ton of grief, 

that she’s barely holding 

it together like a frightened 

child not knowing where 

to run when the sky turns 

red and white streams of destruction 

rain from the sky, 

and the idea of saving her, 

of her holding on to a 

saviourish version of me

chock-full of mawkish sentimentality, 

eerie wisdom gleaming in my eyes, 

kissing her forehead and saying, 

I’m broken too, although 

I’ve never felt the stab of losing 

someone excites me. 

I need to be there… I will be there…

forever and always… my love is

a carousel of unadulterated 

passion… the beauty of knowing you… 

PLEASE FUCKING STOP!

Human love isn’t eternal,

it’s finite and often finds itself

creeping on barbed wire fences 

of hate, anything beyond I can only love 

you so much, but that’s more than

enough is worship, prostrating oneself

before some perfect vision. 

So I guess it’s time I cut the 

with-arms-wide-open, saving-you-

from-yourself-crap and 

reevaluate everything I’ve known 

about passion.