Being Serious

Being Serious

I don’t remember the point at which I stopped being serious.

But I know I did stop.

Wrapping my ideas for life around this one boy,

a boy who wasn’t even a man.

Getting high around the clock was his plan.


I debated and contemplated, depending on us,

but his plan was thus:

too different, too self-centered.

He was no longer taking part in the life we had entered.


I was lonely.

I was tired.

I was angry.

And I was defeated.

All my morals had been drained and cheated.


He was that guy in the halls,

listening and taking part in the lewd cat-calls.

Friends with everyone and strutting as if he were the priest,

High and Mighty, popularity consumed him while everything else had ceased.


“I can feel it, I’m going to be big this year.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll bring you with me.”

I thought of him as if he were a living hyperbole.


I was left behind, outdated.

the one in the halls that felt understated.

Underfoot and overlooked in his shadow.

Writing escaping into Voyager was my loaded crossbow.


And in the end it was movies and movies and not much else.

I was barely in the mood to see him

when his demand for sex became a threat of its own.

His clouded mind truly was sitting upon a throne.


He called me scared, he called me a bitch.

He told me “I hope you suffer in your next relationship like I did!”

while I met with fury for not giving it up.

Then he asked for me to take him back like I might turn and say “yup”.


There were days of begging and days of serenades, one last chance with his love to “show”.

Yet I said no.

“You should have known the stakes,”

taking me for granted with broken promises is not what it takes.


And still I don’t remember the point at which I stopped being serious.

But I know I did stop.

All thanks to my morals being drained and cheated.

And now I’m done being the one who is mistreated.


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