I know Love is
Only true in faery tales.
Meant for someone else
But never me.
Love is out to miss me.
That’s the way it seems.
Still, a Prince is always
In my dreams.

When men see my face,
They become leavers.
They take off without
A glance at my mind.
I’m not Love.
They have to leave me,
They couldn’t love me
If they tried.

I thought Love was
More (not less) a giving thing.
But the more I’ve got,
The less they want.
What’s the use of thinking?
It hardly gives me gain.
When I need some Shakespeare,
I get Paine.

When men see my face,
They become leavers.
They take off without
A glance at my mind.
I’m not “Love.”
They have to leave me,
They couldn’t love me
If they tried.

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