What is it about poetry
that so consumes you
Brings you to your knees,
cowering in a corner
of your own delusions
Reading in between the lines,
finding what is not really there
Dropping hints of absurd defiance,
collecting spoonful after spoonful
of puzzled meanings and chaliced dreams

Flowing symbolisms, metaphoric landscapes -
Where bushes are bluebirds
and sidewalks - bridges of no return

Why do you reach
into your pocket, searching for love
on white paper folded into a square,
when all along it faces you -
not in ink, but in smiles
expressing exactly what is felt
No boundaries or disguised emotions
penned in rhythmic sequence,
only true love, standing on this sidewalk -
which is only a sidewalk

What is it about poetry
that so consumes you,
when love is waiting – just outside the lines

reading your ***** text
like love letters
the words take over me
with a vendetta
of turning me on
like your body
every line gets better
picturing you in my mind
as I'm reading every line
using my fingers skillfully to reply
wishing it your body I was touching on the whole time

I wish I had six fingers
I wish I had three hands
I wish I had two heads
One that had a beard
Just so my physical appearance would show
What kind of freak I am
I wish I didn't have a soul
So I could be unaffected by the world we know
And
Its sickness

I want the people close to me,
to read my poetry,
and tell me honestly,
what they think.

I want the people close to me,
to read my poetry,
and truly,
understand how I think.

I want the people who I want to know me,
to read my poetry,
or else they'll only,
be as close as they think.