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So I find myself once again at a bar, once again writing poetry to random women
Watching their reactions as I peel off rhymes with ease feeling less than half of what I write to them
I just want that next smile, that nod of approval, that sudden feel of familiarity
And I get it, more often than not, thanks to my ability at spontaneous poetry
Yet it's still just me, just me sitting at the bar pumping out connected words
Not really feeling connected myself, just wondering why I so often feel absurd
Like Pavlov's Dog, panting and drooling at the imagined bell of easy affection
Knowing why so many poets write of being lonely, using words so skillfully with no direction
And yes, that's me, directionless, just wishing I had that real thing I once had
That real love, that real sense of support... hope, is that really so bad?
Hope is immortal, it will stick with you until your last breath
It can be dashed on the rocks of despair, but will only leave you the moment of death
And so I hope that you read this and understand the desperation of loneliness
The man sitting anonymous on a bar stool praying upon prayer for just one returned smile's caress