In the habit of old time tradition
I feel I must tell of another condition
which plagued me now since I was quite young
and perhaps only hurts like my arm getting stung
by a spider who spun her web of perdition
trapping a boy in an act of contrition
Love it seems will escape for the moment
but allow me this time for a frustrated slow vent
life would be easier if not for the wanting
to find someone special, a sense of belonging
yet somehow we think that through gifts and warm kisses
our troubles wont matter with the promise of a Mrs.
Like sheep to a slaughter we are drawn to our fate
to depress and confess 'til our love turns to hate
and we think to ourselves, "what has happened to us?"
while we play stupid games and deceive for their trust
dating, I think, is just a series of lies
as we make ourselves out to be more than just guys
So "what is the point?" a smart person would ask
"If we try to find love but must wear a mask?"
"The point" I would say with fervor and conviction
"Is we all strive for happiness though writing a fiction"
But don't let technicalities keep you at bay
Because I wouldn't have it any other way
Plus I'm just venting and not making much sense
like painting a carpet or vacuuming a fence
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