No one writes and the telephone is a paperweight

You tell me all about what luck you have
to have all these hearts surround you,
to be
unaware of solitude,
touched and handled,
never crushed by quiet,
always a full house with matching
heart.

I hope it never ends.

Time,
racing ever onward,
shakes loose the tepid grip
of lukewarm hearts.
There aren't many who have the fortitude
to bear your burden with you
and,
anyway,
why should they?

I used to dream of forever before I stopped believing,
but the human heart just doesn't have room
for anything but adoration for its host.

I won't pretend I'm different.

If I martyr myself to art maybe
they'll give me another shot.

Then I'll start over.

I'll eat all my vegetables,
letter in High School,
get the girl,
become a captain of industry
and run
for office.

I'll be a really great guy and
everyone will
know my
name.