Question:
I mean for this to have a good deal more polish and inner workings when I'm finished, but for now, here's the first draft:
Worthwhile
Her voice wakens you from your distracted reverie,
She’s had enough of not having enough, it’s time for hard-edged inquiry,
Your don’t make much money; you and the house are both going to seed,
You’re a fat and lazy lay-about—just another mouth for her to feed,
And honestly a lover of such proportion isn’t hard to replace,
But it’s okay—you haven’t felt the same about her since she lost the pretty face
Entropy—we’re often not worth,
The space we consume on the good earth,
With no recourse, but to press on,
In the hope of nothing but approaching dawn,
When we'll be worth the trouble it would take to kill us
It’s a complicated way of saying she wants to stay,
These compromising scenes she captured on a grainy bedroom videotape,
You’d be gone if you had half a backbone, but instead your attention strayed,
Until her soprano voice panting his name left you feeling betrayed,
She says she’ll never go back, and is sorry for what she’s already done,
The agony is in not knowing if the baby behind her hastily half-tucked shirt is your son,
Entropy—we’re often not worth,
The space we consume on the good earth,
With no recourse, but to press on,
In the hope of nothing but approaching dawn,
When we'll be worth the trouble it would take to kill us
You’re going to hell, this living one is already your inheritance and portion,
You’re alone. She’s been dead inside, since her body performed its own abortion,
The inescapable necessity of life together is a living, demonic thing,
In the wasteland of mingled hate and love where you share a name but don’t wear rings,
In the bedroom her eyes and the ceiling leak in dreary communion,
That harmony of moisture and your broken hearts are the last trace of any union,
Entropy—we’re often not worth,
The space we consume on the good earth,
With no recourse, but to press on,
In the hope of nothing but approaching dawn,
When we'll be worth the trouble it would take to kill us
Wake up, the morning sunlight filters through the dirty glass and loses its cheer,
One hand stuffed in the bodice of an airbrushed goddess, the other clutching a beer,
She emerges from your once-shared bedroom, her cheeks bleached by tears,
You don’t notice in the misery that her eyes are sifting through the dirt,
To see what she saw in you, to see any reason not to desert,
Each ray is a glimmer of hope that you, even you, can make this work.
Answer:
*bump*