ponti's on liverpool street
twenty past three
in the morning
i'm dying
and you don't love me
ponti's on liverpool street
twenty past three
in the morning
i'm dying
and you don't love me
wild accusations
of lies in text messages
has it all been a lie since the beginning?
wouldn't i rather be
somehow "released" from this
paranoid web of self-doubt you are spinning?
no, my love, no
no "release"
not on my part
i don't understand how you got that idea
but then what of you?
for you don't trust me truly
(or even at all)
any more, it is clear
i'm in ponti's
on liverpool street
twenty to four
in the morning
and you don't love me any more...
ponti's
on liverpool street
twenty to four
in the morning
and you don't love me any more...
Poems For My Analyst by Wayne Myers