Superstition had resulted in my lack of lucky charms,
in my misunderstanding of misfortunes,
in my profound disillusionment with life working out the way it should
Optimism bested me and my pessimistic tendencies,
but only for a moment,
only in my moment of weakness,
in the disarmament I let you bring upon me, the way only you could
Defeatism was never the hyperbole I believed it to be,
it was on target,
when it targeted in my insides,
and I let my guard down for the infiltration, just the way you said I would
And in the end, it was my offering that was the disappointment,
even to me,
And in my end, it was the shoulda coulda woulda of my so called attributes,
that then became my flaws,
that then became the way you worded me in an obit,
And like a paltry party balloon that no one cared to adopt for the afternoon,
I disappeared in mid-air
just.
like.
that.
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