in our hearts we know the score
we are disposable
dispensible
replaceable
upgradeable
no man is any more
and every woman knows it too
each love a lie
for temporary gain
of status, or security
or something else
it hardly matters
when you needed love, my love
my love was good enough for you
but woe betide the fool
who thought
you'd feel the slightest need to do
the same for me
when i was hurt
and wounded
and in need of love
and now you are so far from me
and my half-poisoned memory
of false personae you projected
i believed in
i got wrecked
upon the rocks of
bitter independence
hoarded in your soul
you fucked me over good
you did
and left me dying in the cold
reality of bitches brew
- i never meant a thing to you
Bad Poetry by Wayne Myers