There is no prince. None of flesh, blood, or bone.
He lives in the home between my ears-- unreachable
I need a fantasy lover. Those ones are better.
The real ones are never birds of my feather;
I'd fare better with a fantasy lover--
a pretend one, who doesn't exist,
one in my head-- but with me so deluded,
it wouldn't matter.
I could rage and rock
and mutter on into the night,
ricocheting between madness and and sadness,
inane sanity and insanity (cleanly).
I need a good fantasy (clearly).
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