Sometimes I worry
That I am
too mad for love,
That my infatuations and declarations of love,
Are too wild to set in stone,
That I’m too afraid to let myself take root,
With just one person,
When there are so many people to love,
All of which I love inadequately.
Sometimes I think I am too mad to be loved,
That my fight and flight libido,
Is too ducking and diving,
Caught between fucking and crying,
Like my mind,
Too unpredictable to be adored,
Keeping those around me in a state of panic,
Too insecure to lay foundations with me.
Sometimes the love I have for myself,
Becomes a lost nomad in the desert of self loathing,
Dying from the thirst,
An unkissed mouth,
Muttering to itself that,
I am too mad for Love; the greatest madness of all.