The real me

I once wrote a poem about love,
though I've long lost the paper.
It was one as graceful as the dove.
Now I find that I hate her.

You see, love is not a game,
You should never roll the dice.
For all you know, the one you met online,
and the one you hold now,
Are realy the same?
Could there be a heart as cold as that ice?

Cynical you, she does not see the web has a spider.
She could never know that it was not you answering the calls.
You can never tell her,
He was you.

And now, like a good "friend",
you take the fall as the bad guy,
Only to find that you love someone that seems the same?
Oh, how I wish for a clearer sky.

So tell me,
what can you do,
to be...
new

To be your own person,
to finally drop your mask,
and let those searching find you.
To throw away those lusts,
so glamorously cheap,
and find your own salvation,
in actual love.
Love so,
breathless.

Now you know the real me.
The deep me.
The one,
that might soon go away.