Not For The Boys

I've got a question for the person on the street
Who picked up my heart as she walked by
A motion so automatic, she didn't even notice as she did it
Neither did I
So here's my question, that I have to ask
Who are you? where are you?
Do you have space in your heart for a traveler and his pack
Full of things that he'd much rather lack
Broken pieces of dreams once held dear
Crumbs of love, smashed and spoiled
And stupid metaphors such as this?
I'm just another sunken-eyed fool
Searching for bliss
And this, and this
This looks a lot like bliss, even though it's you
So I guess not bliss, just a care-worn happiness
The kind that feels good when you crawl under the sheets after a long
Hard day
And I don't honestly know if I'll ever be that way
And I also don't know if I'm scaring you with these words
If I were me, you, my reader, were she
Would you run and hide from the dark, wild passion inside
Such a youthful, well-spoken, well-read boy?

(But maybe this doesn't really matter, anyway
But then nothing would matter at all, in any single way)