You make me feel
Like there is
Something wrong
With me

Because you
Told me
You liked me
And that you would
Do all of these things
With me
And told me
I was the most
Beautiful girl
You have ever seen

You made me feel
For once
In my life
That I actually
Mattered to
Someone
That someone actually
Cared enough
To text me back
Or worry
How I was doing

But I realized
It was all
Just another game;
I turned into
Putty in your hands
And I let you
Play and tear
At the strings
Of my heart
And at the strings
Of what was
Keeping me
Alive

So, guess what?

*******.

-e.w.

The heart flutters
The mind races
The muscle tightens
The body burns with desire
Nature takes control
Hair is pulled
Backs are clawed
Lips are pressed against
Acts of Lovers
Passions of Love

Sometimes he let his eyes rest on hers, it needn't have been painful,
but it strangely was.
He broke a lifetime of avoiding eye contact to show her.
She was worth overcoming obstacles for.

We fear everything
that we don't know
a snake bite
paralysis
suffocation
we fear everything
we fear ourselves
because they don't impress
we fear others
because their eyes
are the color of denial
we fear communication
because we have nothing to communicate
we fear fear itself
because we know
what it is capable of

It is a priviledge to be loved by a poet,
to be embraced by the meter and the rhyme
and caressed by soft metaphors and sharp alliterations.
To be painted a universe with words and run-on sentences
that converge in a single thought expressed with
similes and repetitions of a single symbol.
It is an honor to be loved by a poet,
to be celebrated with odes, mourned with elegys
and elevated to a pedestal by a canticle.
It is a marvel to be loved by a poet,
to be the muse of long, weary nights of concentration
and be part of passionate lines in dramatic monologues
as each is recited with the intonation of rising ardour.
To be submerged in sizzling appreciation of one's quirks
and virtue.
To be loved and to love.
To provoke an inspiration and a sigh of ephemeral longing
and bring about a remedy to the mourning.
It is a misery and joy to be loved and be of unrequited
provocative inspiration to the riveting mind of a lone
and solitary poet.

A green like the first blade of grass in spring,
A blue as dark as the sky on a cloudless night,
A yellow as bright as the sun,
These are the colors of the eyes,
That carry me.
Carry me away from this cold place,
They bring me bliss,
And this I know is complete happiness.
This place where I am,
Where love is all I feel,
And passion is all there is.
These eyes belong to my one true love.
This man I know will be the one,
To take my hand and never let go.
I love you.

Loving*
                               is
                                                                ­  too
                                 *mainstream
                but
                                ­                being
                                                                ­                  loved
                                                               back
                                                is
                                                                ­                     not.