Be my muse tonight, my love.  
Inspire me in my dreams.
In poetry, I'll think of you
where starlight always gleams.

As Morning Glories catch the sun,
I'll capture you in rhyme.
My heart will sing your praises
while you make my spirit climb.

The raindrops are a mockery
that try to match my tears,
which fall like diamonds on my cheeks
each time our parting nears.

Your eyes like pools of amber
often take my breath away.
Your lips demand attention
and my ardor doth obey.

Be my muse tonight, my love.  
Ensnare me with a kiss.
Enslaved my heart shall ever be
a prisoner of your bliss.

The poet lives two lives.
One on the outside,
And one in their mind.

When you look in their eyes
You could see an abyss.

If you looked long enough
You could sink into it.

But most people don’t see it.

Take the time to read the words, though,
And you would know for sure.

The poet lives in two different worlds.

There is art
In your heart
Painting pictures
When I lay
My head down on your chest

There are songs in your eyes
Singing lullabies
When you hover
Pin me down
With your stare

There is a poem
On the tip
Of your tongue
I taste it
When I kiss you

You are tortured
Stereotyped
My jaded lover
I hear it
When you won't talk

you say you’re not a poet but
with a girl like that,
how could you speak
anything less than
the stars?
-a.c.b

In all my poem reading,
I haven't been able to relate to a love poem.

Until tonight,
I always thought the writers were exaggerating.

Yet, this feeling of connection is remarkable.
I suppose I would need a strange poem to describe it,
too.

The last time I saw you
I was so sure
That my feelings for you
Had flown away
Like birds in migration

Little did I realise
That migratory birds


Always

Come

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