Writing is like talking to a beautiful woman. Pelt her with shoddy words and badly composed sentences and she slaps you and walks away. Splash her full of ink and you only get a cheap **** with ripped stockings and too many scratched out tattoo's.

But,

Caress her with your pen, stroke her with loving splendor, decorate her with words and sentences like sparkling diamonds and you have her attention. Use old pick up lines and you entertain her, for a while. Be yourself and speak from the soul and you entertain her for a life time.

Time and again this illusion takes hold,
The vision of your hand in mine to hold.

Your hair creeping out behind your ear,
Tempting my fingers to tuck them away.

Your lips breaking into a smile, teeth n' all,
Radiating my face with it's pure light.

but,

alas.

Illusions are all for naught, a pipe dream.

For your hand is not mine to hold,
It is his, the man I envy and hate.

The one tucking away your hair is not me,
It is him, the man that makes my fist itch.

Your sweet smile with teeth n' all,
Bathes the boy in all I wish for.