Ain't real, said a strong working man to me.

Seems strange, one of my lady friends complained.

If it's what you want, eased my true friends to me.

But I find that it ain't real, and rather strange,

that fake tenderness and manipulation is a characteristic,

of which I engage.

Love, oh from any corner I would take it,

as a sign that my life isn't so foul and riddled with mistakes.

I am attempting to hold, any good feelings I had for you,

but I'm finding them disappear as the sun comes,

to melt away this stubborn snow.

If only my father, and old lovers would go away.

If my true friends stayed, but then left again to simply be:

I'd ask you there alone, what you think of me?

And before you'd answer, I'd run away--

and cheer you on as you came running after me.

We'd play our game, of fake tenderness and conditioned love,

and I'd end it. With you crying in the night,

wondering what will come. Bitterness isn't sweet,

and I hate some certain aspects of you, entirely.