The Broken Record

I know all I do is say the same things

Over and over again

A constant loop

A broken record

But records scratched and worn are often the greatest

And I vow to only tell my own truths

Here I go again with this same old song:

"You have my heart darling-

You are my beloved-

Because you made me feel-

Phenomenal-

Phenomenal-"

But really dear, I revel in this.

And I sing along with the words I know well.

I want to be up there beside you.

Dancing in my own way.

But being on the other side.

Trembling with tears, from the raw emotion you summoned from me.

That is what art is.

And so to me, that is what love is.

I know it sounds grim-

And gross-

And dirty.

But to me it is the purist thing I can thus achieve in this world.

And anyone who brings me to that nirvana, as painful as it might be-

They own my soul forever.

I may carry on, as usual.

That's what's expected, after all.

But it still gets to me.

They all still get to me.

"If I am unseen then I can perform miracles"

"Can I knock you unconscious as long as I promise I'll love you and I'll make you laugh?"

"Where are your troubles now?"

Oh God.

Do you think I can handle it?

I usually skip it when I know I have to function.

But I know in my heart, life- my life, at least-

Is more about feeling than functioning.

And besides, that's what a broken record is-

More feeling, less functioning.

And I'm content with that fate.

I'm content with that fate.

I'm content with that fate.