It keeps blinding me                                
  not the pain                                                      
    no­t the jealousy                                                  
      not the shame
        not the depression

                               It's the Love.

So bright it burns
No longer a fleeting feeling
Just a passionate sizzle
As it protests against my skin
Adding a different kind of hue
Described as feminine colors
Some men hate it so

Twinkling with a glare,
  not the face
    not the torso
      not the hands
        not the legs

                               It's the Eyes.

Dark as day swallowing the light
Greedy for more color
In wait, it becomes a game
It glares with determination
Reflecting its true desires
Blissfully unaware of another's intent
In hope it finds purchase of more value

Beating down with persistence,
  not the brain
    not the stomach
      not the lungs
        not the intestines

                             It's the Heart.

True inner beauty
is what captures the most
Relative to time and space
It may grow weary with years
Though it will never distinguish its heat
Pulsing vibrantly every single second
Divulging upon raw emotion and vision

I carry this speaker
hoping their voices will be heard
more precise and cleaner
booming loudly word for word
--deafening those nearby

Moving those emotionally
and
a bit rationally
sharing hearse and raw
opening the eyes
to those who never saw

I hope to share a different point of view
without the judgmental whips
that sting like a tattoo
only offering their own remarks and tips
none of it spits any true

For whoever is free
please,
vouch for my plea
this volume has a limit
only brave hearts outstretch it
--don't become a cynic

Mark these words well
for it's hard to be repeated
moreover, speak and tell
do not perceive this as conceited
or
all our lives are broaching a newfound hell

Every thing,
Every single one
Is repeated
No originality
In a world of fragility

Succulent flourishes
a brief sense of essence
fleeting life within a blade of grass
cutting reality by a sliver
rational itching sensation
overwhelming pit of doom
distinct summary, concluded
the life we call ours is no more
falling one by one in a green field
filled with dread and suspense
being consumed with blinding greed

This chair does not get any older
sitting here, it dents with old emotions
no longer still but a swelling embrace
a cushion to my exhaustion
it becomes weary in wait
holding me like my legs can do no more
it resembles your hair in a way
choppy brown and representing age
sometimes I wonder if this chair will
become brand new again
like a new random chance
of good luck that I wish your body
could sustain whilst gazing at you
pondering if you can feel my passive stare

Perhaps it would have been better
to lay with you on your bed
making it a little less lonely
being provided with your warmth
compared to this thin blanket
it was another reminder of how
I cannot feel your body heat against mine
your bed dips a bit more every day
showing your weight, may be a little deeper
though it sings me good night
while squirming in your presence and
the fact this chair is becoming quite uncomfortable

I wonder if I will ever get off it again
waiting for your eyes to peer at me again,
again, to tell me that your leaving now
and the coldness really will settle in

Wind brushes my hair
combing through with its cool fingers
tugging with airy emotion
twisting into knots
pecking my cheeks swiftly
clear blue eyes tear up
making me feel chilled
and a little less lonely