Poetry has always been handed out,
paid for, gifted, free gratis,
here by an invisible benefactor,
who for the most part goes humbly, unnoticed.

Never will I try again
For I'm nothing in your eyes.
You gave me nothing but pain
And a pair of teary eyes.

I've always given out my heart,
Thinking you're the perfect one.
Instead you're a work of art
A dream so far, like the Sun.

So no longer will I try
When Love is not to be mine.
For my broken heart has died
Even though I still look fine.

I hope that you would change my mind
And show that Love is not a lie.

I watch as she break in the corner of my eyes
While I endulge myself in the company that others bring

She took a few breaths, picked up the pieces
And she sew her tattered heart with iron strings

Listen, it's a beautiful thing
when distilled to its essence;
reduced to its purest form.
A paradox and a paradigm;
a paragon of perfection.
Epic in its arythmetic
progression; poetic.
Like Chinese arithmetic,
so hard it hurts. Yet soft
and exquisite, like a bubble
of love caught in a beating heart.
That place where poetry starts.

“I want your smile.
I want your arms wrapped around me.
I want your oceanic-blue tantalizing eyes piercing through my empty soul.
I want your kisses.
I want your tight hugs.
I want your voice lulling me to sleep.
I want your late night sweet messages.
I want your trust.
I want your love.
I want everything from you.
I want them mine alone.

Am I asking for too much?

I’ll stop making non-sense jokes to make you smile.
I’ll stop teasing you.
I’ll stop confiding myself to you.
I’ll stop caring.
I’ll stop showing fragility.
I’ll stop getting used to your concern-filled cold voice.
I’ll stop asking for your attention.
I’ll stop trying.
I’ll stop asking for more.
I’ll stop being greedy.
I’ll stop wanting you.
I’ll stop this feeling.
     Maybe.

     I think.

     Hopefully.

Do you want me to stop?”