Telling Stories

I tell myself a lot of stories
but each one ends the same
disappointment
disillusion
pain.

I see things for what they are
but reinvent them as I want them to be

imagining
this one’s the answer
that one’s the prize
conjuring
inventing
projecting
different words
but all the same lies.

My gut says stop
I say push on
I don’t listen
I con.

I know the answer
is not outside myself
but know it’s not within me either

there’s nothing left there but regret.

The myth of love
the fable of sex
they do all the driving
I do all the rest

you are never coming
and I can’t save myself alone.

This is the story I tell
and telling
realize

that when surrounded by love
I couldn’t feel it
and when I felt it
ran
each story another episode in a self-fulfilling plan

my rescue fantasy
that you will come along
and prove that love is everything
when all that’s ever asked of me
is to be the man I am.

This is the story I tell myself
and anyone who’ll listen
of how I wish for love and always lose
this con
this prophecy
that makes the lie of wishing.