Out of Range

Sugar-filled teardrops run down my cheek,
Falling so heavy they make me feel weak.
I wipe them away with the back of my hand,
But they stick, without fear, like a footprint to sand.

I should taste the sweetness that sits on my lips,
Instead only bitterness, like fat in my hips.
My tongue spits the vileness out of my range,
But it sticks, without fear, like religion won't change.

I'm chasing the image of a man I hold dear.
I push him away, yet I need him so near.
My feet keep on running on a track that won't bend,
And the movement is futile, for love won't attend.

A burnings inside if a heart once warm,
Instead it scalding whilst broke and torn.
The tasting and running won't heal the year,
So sugar-filled teardrops I'll continue to wear.