Of All the Girls In The World, Why Did I Hear Your Cry For Unrequitted Love?

I see behind those classic Chicago eyes.
You don't fool me one bit with your sharpened intellect
and rhythmical laments.
I now understand what you mean when you say your pen is the barrel of the gun...
          I want to be the one whispering anything that
might soothe your finger on that aching trigger.
    I feel your pain between the lines where you thought no one would
hear, now hand me the gun before you shoot yourself in the foot.
            These tears aren't because you are standing on the window's ledge,
no, rather because I see the passport in hand and wonder what you're running from
(and who broke your worst weapon...it's barely beating but I hear it).

All the world's your stage, but tell me multi-platinum piped crooner,
what do you have to go home to at night when all your pretty
alliterations and infamous metaphors are sung? Some how
I have a feeling you realize your soul mate you once thought impervious
to imperfections
isn't whom you wish to confide those lost lustful thoughts to. By those words you
swoon, I'd say there's something
you're still longing for.
Does it hurt knowing you
forfeited
all for this?
Fiery haired soul,
I would stand behind you
if only to catch
you when you are ready to admit to yourself
this isn't what you wanted.

If I tell you I'm good both in bed and with a pen,
Will you say I let it go to my head...
(or perhaps would you lean in to listen?)
I'll tell you what makes me so special,
it's called head fucked in Hollywood,
and I'm  a shot at a normal life
(Whatever that is, but I guarantee it's not a footnote in
someone else's happiness).
Sing to me, sarcastic, sardonic, sweet,
When you do find an actual cure for growing older, will you come down from Infinity and into the arms of a life less than what you have now?