Fee-fi-fo-fum— as we weighed love by
an empty ounce, and paid it all back by this
sore pound. They yell: “come now or begone,”
and if you can’t produce the sum for what’s
been done; flee to fine some… or find none.
An anguish in fornication, and a touch that speaks,
but means nothing at all. No real stimulation—
just hunger in the guise of heat, and shame where
love was meant to meet. As some feather-dust their
guilt, pretending to have clean intentions. But we’ve
only used each other to air out our frustrations.
These old recycled themes; ******* from peers,
spilling from worn-out jeans, and spreading
dreams like genes, without real meaning in between
the fabric of time.
But tell me, do you still not see the giant problem?
Or are you too big for yourself, to fully measure up
to your own faults?
