it's hard to be the bard, baby

i will sing of many things

as any good bard must do

bringing so much to life

with only the sound

of my voice

i could sing for you, too

softly, of a man with

daisies braided into

long hair and tucked behind ears

would you take these flowers

that i have picked

even if my hands shake

and their true meaning escapes me?

poor little bard,

i say to myself,

scrubbing tear tracks from pale cheeks

always singing of love

until his voice cracks and breaks

but never truly experiencing it

of course, there’s a certain

poetry in the persistence

of a wound such as this

though, metaphor be damned

it fucking hurts

but there’s no blood to sop up

nothing to bandage or splint

and at the end of the night

i am still left alone

something that feels like

your name on my tongue

and i want to tell you

so many things

like how beautiful you are

like how i’m sorry i let

this infatuation get so far

and grow so large

and i want you to know

that a bard with a broken heart

will yield no coin

but i’ll keep singing for you

anyway

because, my love

the least i can do

is immortalize you

if not in my arms

then through words that will

survive long after i have

returned to the ground

and isn’t that worth something?