Last Man Syndrome

My fingers in shambles,
Especially the first,
After sliding down the bass
It’s surely the worst.
But the louder I play
The faster I can forget
The pain you subject me to.

I want so much,
(Is my aim too high?)
But I ask for so little
(Is restraint just a lie?).
I’m not such a danger
But it seems like your goal
Is to hold me at arm’s length
As a stranger.

I am not he
And I don’t think it should matter
Though by now between I and he
You’re making me aim for the latter,
And I wonder if being
The last man
Would be enough.

Is being treated as a human
Too much to ask?
This treatment, dear friend,
Makes me turn to my mask:
I’ll hide,
Or be jester,
You don’t want the truth.

Avoid me, disdain me,
Whatever you choose,
I’ll stand here and take it,
My love is yours to lose…
Or trample on
Or hide from
Or keep…

…Perhaps if I was the last man.