A crybaby sings the blues

I don’t think your love can save me,
And tear me out of the infested waters.
What has passed me…
Has remarkably been a love that baits a cat with string.
It’s high time,
I curl my index finger down,
And stop trying to find which way the wind is.
It’s logical to plant rows and rows of flourishing gardens,
Watering their seeds,
Without drowning them.
I don’t think your love can uproot me from the stoop,
Nor hack away at this tree trunk
Years too old to stay.
Only street kids hang around and sit on it.
The little ones make tables out of it,
And well the adults won’t trace it with their fingertips,
The lines mark the years
That have gone by.
I ought to quit fluttering my heart,
Because I know I’m stuck.
Swamp goo, Seaweed and past times hold my ankles hostage.
If my gardens here do flourish,
And they float away as lily pads,
Take one flower and remember me.
For I’ve loved in heaps
Stomping fruit with my feet
But I know it’s not the time for me.
Your love can’t pull me out of the wreckage,  this I’m sure.

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