Memory of Loves Passed

Again, he is drawn to me
To my optimistic view of this hate-filled world
At first sight, he needs my hope in which to live by
He finds strength in the hope that I provide
Yet it is in that very strength that I become weak
It is there that I take my place as victim once again
As the metaphorical punching bag on which he takes out his pains
Pains conceived from his every day weight of the world
Where I find the recurring truth that I bear
It seems a cruel curse that I play martyr for the weak and unloved
Who gain control through my pain in the grasp of my love


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