Why must all the words I write, be self-defeating,
Why must I always write of my monsters, my
Insecurities.
Why can I not write of pleasure, of purpose, of power,
Why can I not declare my love, write of times never to be
Lost.
I want to write differently, I want to tell my reader's a story,
I want to tell them of this girl, who has changed my world
Forever.
A girl who is sweeter than the first sip of coffee after a long night,
Sharper than the thorn of a rose, lips softer than the breeze, of the
Moon.
A girl who has transformed me from inside out,
She wrote me one little poem with just the look of her eyes, and I
Knew.
The way I was living, perfectly-alone,
Was far from perfect at all, I desired her poetry more and
More.
The poem of the goosebumps on her skin,
The poem of her *******, the poem of her hair
Falling.
Across her chest, my hands followed hers,
She wrote me the poetry of her dancing, poetry of how she
Loves.
She took the words I wrote, threw them away,
She made me into a man of action, made me a man forever
Attracted.
To her style of poetry, for she made her words come alive,
Now I write not of my losses, my sadness, I write as I dream of
Her.