I found myself staring at you
from across the Chemistry room.
I found my mind creating these poems about your eyes,  
about your smile,
about your voice.
You created these poems in my head
like a seed and water create a flower.
I had these flowers blooming like crazy in my head like my hand
held a pen losing its ink with every word I scrawled down.
I planted these flowers into the paper
just as you had done to me.
As I found myself creating these poems in my head
I realized I had no idea how to stop them.
They had a mind of their own, these poems,
they were growing like a wildfire,
just like the flowers you'd embedded into my brain.

A gentleman is not brutal,
but he will prove all vendettas futile.
He is not immune to bullet, fist or blade
but any insult raised against him
will be met with a blockade.
He is stoic, but still smiles,
cracking his face open without reserve
for a friend, to calm, to a foe, to unnerve.
A gentleman dresses his best,
whether it Vans and sweater, or tie and vest.
No-one is beneath his attention
he gifts compliments quite often,
but when a man puts a hand on him,
that man goes home in a coffin.

No matter his orientation,
he respects every inclination,
He holds the door
the same way he strikes true,
every time.
He knows his weapon well,
but in blood, he doesn't buy nor sell.
He knows the time to fight
but of violence, he makes no light.
He respects every man,
every woman,
every child...
But,
if his family is ever hurt
and this one renders apologies inert
then they shall receive only
a box and a white shirt.