Export Love

A poem about giving too much away in love

I ship containers of concern

Over the air and over the sea

I ship it out so often,

I don't know if there's enough for me

It seems kind of boring, though

to have it all for myself

Don't know how much I get in return,

so it's not quite stuff I sell

I guess I hope my exports

just prompt some kind of trade

'cause what I synthesize on my own's

not a living wage

"When's it my turn?" I wonder

"When do I get to play?"

It's like I need opinion 'sides my own

to decide where I'll stay

Is it the wrong way to live?

Is there a wrong way to live?

F**k if I know

I just know the way I've been so long is alone

Author's Note

opinions welcome