The real is rare,

The fake doesn't care...

One who ought to be dear;

Alas! Brings despair.

 

My search goes everywhere,

To meet the one who's sincere.

That one supposed to bring cheer,

And no trick play, only an option fair.

 

Happiest I was when he was near,

He wouldn't let my eyes shed a tear...

In my loneliness I sometimes still fear,

Where I lost him, why he isn't there?

 

The joy of touch, the bond of first beer...

The moments together that we did share,

That he was mine, a different flair;

My confidence boasted and I'd dare.

 

Soft whispers of the past when I hear,

Throws my thoughts out of gear...

But I realize again that real is rare,

And what's real is only myself here.

 

Sympathizers are lairs who don't spare...

Their consolation is only a jeer...

The wound remains unhealed and bare...

I sense I am pitied but I least give an ear.

 

It is a truth that real is rare...

A real truthful heart is so much austere,

Revered, soothing, beautiful and clear,

I will wait for him every day every year.