Poetry with simple rhyme scheme
isn't really poetry at all.
It takes all the artistry of language,
and crushes their greatness
into something rather small.

It belittles the sharp peaks of your smile,
that peek through porcelain veils.
It takes the beauty of your eyes,
and brings them down to scale.

The rhyming ruins all seriousness,
true poets take in pride,
it leaves their work in ridicule,
though their emotions are implied.

It vastly understates
the warmth in your cheeks,
and incredibly discounts
the lions of your dreams,
making them seem weak.

That is why I will never write a poem
describing the perfection of you
in a silly little rhyme scheme;
that is what I shall not do.

I will, however, jest
at what rhyming cannot describe,
although it tries to do its best,
it falls by the wayside,

For limericks cannot contain
my pretentious heart and soul,
and cannot compare
to the magnificence you hold.

Because if I could contain your spirit,
in matters of stanzas and rhyme
my talents would be wasted,
this atrocity a crime,

But you make my writing worthwhile,
and give me ideas to muse,
instead of the dull and dread,
the pretender's butter and bread,
with none of my talents to use.

The light in your eyes
reflects the laughter
that bursts forth from your soul,
and echoes
through muggy night air.

It traverses
across the room,
bouncing off the glints
of teeth
from constant conversations
of strangers.

As their smiles turn to
smirks,
and bright eyes
grow heavy
with slumber and drink,
your laughter still reverberates

Off the curves of their
hips,
and the tips
of their tongues,
as your lips touch
to meet someone else’s.

We stared at the ceiling as it blackened from the lights turning off,
and the air chilling with every breath from the A.C.
Inch by inch we moved closer to each other
because we thought it was what we were supposed to do,
but little did we know that with each nudge
our electrons were sending spark signals
way before our bodies even thought about touching.

Like iron and sulfur, we synthesized
moving into each other's lives,
and leaving our pieces behind us,
swapping stories and secrets
in the cover of nightfall
with roaring laughter,
while our heads made permanent impressions
on their downy and memory foam petals
in the garden of wishes
we created.

Constantly I was with you,
just as the shore is never without the sea.
I became your shadow,
and followed you to your room,
and back again,
through the drug cartels of Mexico,
to the blizzards that lie beyond The Wall.
You became my greatest adventure
and showed me what lay beyond the door
I was always too frightened to open.

You earned a doctorate in my mannerisms,
becoming an expert on each temper tantrum,
and each shining grin that you always brought about
on the gloomiest of Wednesdays
when I ran out of milk for my cereal
and overcooked your mac and cheese.

You embraced every flaw I had,
like the father welcoming home the prodigal son,
and came to love every scar I accumulated,
thirty-eight in total,
from the hordes of others,
almost too numerous to count on ten fingers,
that constantly left me with a sewing needle,
and a bottle of Elmer's glue
to mend from each tumble
of their careless hands.


Every jagged edge of mine that cut your palms,
and left nicks on your fingertips
was smoothed by the rough edges of your beard,
and through scratchy kisses
from chapped lips.
You became my greatest blessing,
as well as my greatest weakness,
so now I constantly crave your pale face
spattered with freckles
and beautiful laugh lines
that congregate around
the warmest brown eyes
I have ever seen.

And I thought I loved you then, but
it definitely was nothing like I love you now, because
now I wake up next to you,
I make both of us coffee, and
push open the curtains to let in sunlight.
And when I wake up next to you,
I don't hate Mondays as much anymore,
And when I wake up next to you,
I feel safe,
because through the valleys of your sleeping lungs
I found where I belong.
I found my home.