Once,

I dated a Boy who loved me and whom I loved.

This sensitive Boy was a poet who composed songs with fragile words on a guitar.

I,

was the girl who recorded black and white visuals of everyday life on an Olympus camera.

Alas,

the Boy needed care in ways which depleted my heavily guarded plethora of emotions.

Drained,

the guard broke, and I left, taking my reserve with me.

The Boy,

recovered, found strength in his songs with fragile words on guitar and now tours all around the states.

His followers,

follow him in awe of the songs with fragile words on guitar.

Once,

I dated a boy who looked like Sting.

This boy,

was an aspiring editor who cut through slices of life with no remorse.

I,

was the girl who recorded black and white visuals of everyday life on a Nikon F3.

I,

married the boy who didn’t love me but loved what I offered in terms of him moving ahead.

Sycophant,        

is what a co-worker once called him.

I,

did not know what the word meant and looked it up in hardcover bound dictionary.

Sycophant,

suited him well for he used people for his own benefit.

The Boy,

who composed songs with fragile words on guitar was far more truer to himself.

He,

reached for the stars when they were out of reach and grasped a bunch that paved the way for his travels.

I,

self-sacrificed my recorded black and white visuals of life on a Horseman 4×5. For no one said I was good enough and I was not true to myself.

The boy,

moved on, to a sycophants’ ultimate dream of scoring one who had connections that would propel his self to a lucrative outcome.

Pity the boy could never relied on his own strength and worth.