Bad Madonna

She's pretty
but by no means attractive.
She'll never wear the boustier.
With all the giggles of pseudo-drunken mystique
she's the princess in her own kingdom
but I chose awhile ago
not to live there.

I sit in my corner and watch
while the scene develops
and try to remain unaffected
by its carnival nature.
"Leave me alone, "
I pray to myself
as I know
it'll never be the way I want it to be.

She's pretty but I've heard the rumors.
All from people I know too well
to wish I didn't know them at all.
I guess it's ok just the same.
I'm stuck in a town full of actors
that wanna ride the big stage
and call themselves superstars
(and even I thought
I could try to pretend with them
because I want to be famous.
Then I stepped back, sat down
and watched them in action.
I realized
I could never play their parts).

All the poets bleed
buckets of blood as they tell their truths.
Only those who have been there can understand,
but those who haven't,
in their white chairs of virginity,
swear covetry is worth the pain
until they've had that same touch.
A tap like an infection
that no one wants after they've felt
but seem to wish for like a Christmas gift.
I've told my stories and spoke no lies,
while trying to discourage the myth
of lust in the untouch'd man's eyes
but he never listens.
He wants to burn by learning
rather than learn
by seeing everyone else's scars.

The singers sang
and we all danced along
in a soggy interpretation.
At the end of the night we went home
feeling much the same
as we did when we had ventured out.
He wanted it all to himself but didn't find it
and I knew I wouldn't, so I was fine.
We all have lives to live.
I'm trying to live mine;
don't make me live anyone else's too.
I don't care how hot she looks.
She's got no agenda in life at all
besides her personal mantra
of getting drunk, high and laid.
Love her regardless
if you have been
so not desired before.
But I'm telling you man,
she'll get you nowhere.