Pessimistic and Potentially Pretentious Poetry

Fifty Fifty

You will either keep me afloat or sink me.

The end is either happy ever after or never sadder.

Disregard the nights spent contemplating the “to be”

because in the eleventh hour, what does it matter?

 

Call off the flowers and the recorded reported,

because love ought to be a two person craft or raft.

The weight of the outsiders can’t be supported

and we’ll sink down through the surface cracks.

 

Flip a coin into the air and call out the tales

that romanticized a sinking ship out in the sea.

I’ll root for heads because my fear prevails

and it makes me tighten my shaking knees.

 

Place your bets at the swaying green table.

Fifty the ring stays on, Fifty it falls overboard,

the gifts divided, leaving us both barely able

to drown on our own without another aboard.

 

Chase down the dream of the perfect heart

and set it loose from the sinking canoe.

The bells ring and wake us up at the start,

floating further out and off into the blue.

 

There’s a thread in the water, now grab ahold,

and tenderly, carefully pull out of the sea

and to the one to whom my heart is sold.

You will either keep me afloat or sink me.

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