What they all say is wrong with me
is really not what’s wrong with me.
They say it’s love that people lack,
that lack of love is what’s wrong with me
but I keep telling them
that’s not it.
Who can think about love when they are
being thinned out?
I mean like, drawn and quartered?
Scraped over too much bread?
Dropped on the ground and shattered
so everyone can have a piece,
but only one or two pieces each-
and that’s the thing.
When you tell them you wish there was someone
who had all the pieces, they think
you want someone to put you back together,
and I don’t.
But someone else has got to realize
we’re all in pieces, like the points on a compass rose-
the pieces can never touch but they belong
just the same.
And it isn’t love that’s lacking
because the world loves what they can see,
but sometimes you just need someone
who can see all the pieces,
and knows that you can be North and South
on any given day
and a lot of the times you’re South-East
and catty-corner to West
but you’re never there for long.
The world thinks when someone is smart enough to see
all your pieces, that is love,
and they think lack of love is what I suffer from,
but love is not what’s wrong with me.