Dear Diary, I mean to cry today.
I have lived by every moral code;
I have worshipped and prayed everyday;
What improvement to you have I told?
A maiden I made; a woman I love
Whom I have thought would take me from the shade
Only gives me more puzzles to solve;
Anytime my arms open, refusals raid.
My lips know no songs shut by soft lips,
My body knows no response to a romantic call.
I dream of figures, and of course of hips;
There they are but I’m blocked by her wall.
Poetry is meaningless to whom it’s not meaningful.
Love is wasteful to whom it is useless.
Hearts are delicate they say I must be careful,
Yet, here I am being careful, being her fool.
Should I keep hoping love stories could be real?
Shall I swear light’s at the tunnel’s end?
Or should I fuck morality and make a new deal?
Dear Diary, for real, you got some advice to lend?