There’s only so many ways,
The same poem can be written.
Only so many strokes,
The same portrait can be painted.
Only so many words,
To describe the same scenario.
Only so many feelings,
For the same emotion.
Only so many variations,
The same memory is remembered.
Familiarity breeds contempt,
But longing births misconception.
I’m tired of replaying the same disc,
The gramophone running like a tired marathoner,
Spinning like a merry-go-round of goodbyes and white lies.
Watch the needle dig into those unforgiving lines,
Hear the screech of a cassette tangling,
Tired of the same old cajoling.
There’s only so many ways to play the same tune,
But the earworms still cling,
And the audience demands the encore with applaud.
Repetitive situations are a temptation,
There are only so many ways I can forgive you,
Before blaming myself the same.
So many ways I can hate you,
Till bitter resent towards me it became.
Only so many times I can get sick of it,
Without getting used to it again.
And having to admit to myself over and over,
I’m only back where I began.