My head is nodding off into sleep,
My mind, shutting down for the night,
Yet the heart is vigorous, up and about,
Says it has poetry that I should type.

I know there's nothing tonight-

I feel no love or heartache at the moment,
No cause for gloom or celebration,
No nagging regrets or piercing guilt,
No urgent philosophical questions.

Yet the heart presses on,
And I've no choice but to let go,
And ease it with the calmness that only poetry brings,
Its verses acting as the best placebo.

After all, a writer's ***** is an impatient one,
And the only way to calm its creative agitation,
Is to feed it with words, ideas and emotion,
Woven together into a recipe of poetic composition.

We would mark our places-

Our flower shop,
Our cheesecake,
Our café,
Our frozen yogurt,
Our secret spot,

We would, without a thought,
Childishly decorate,
Build landmarks; but now
When it's time to separate,

I realize, as we stare
Ruefully at one another,
That we marked not only places,
But ended up coloring each other-

~ Irreversibly ~

Do it now,
Light a match, set my heart aflame,
The wait is too slow, love,
I need an end to this game,
Where i know the hopes
Are bleak for my victory,
So do it swiftly in one go,
Light a match and burn away this agony.

I watch him move as if in a trance,
Engrossed in another world,
In moments like this I
Don't dare disturb
Him out of his spiritual reverie,
His hands doused in color,
Working on the canvas in a rapturing frenzy.

He is a spectacle,
The creator of perfection.
He knows just the right shade
To bring to life his vision,
He knows...
He knows it all,
Mingling fine detail with vague mystery,
Crafting beauty that enthralls.

While I...
I fumble and struggle,
To pick the right words,
To describe him,
My fixation, obsession,
My muse, my craft,
As if he reduces all my poetic prowess
To a bundle of nervous childish follies,
He, the master of his art towers over-
Me, merely a humble slave of his fancies.

I hate using fullstops in my poems.

I want you to smoothly glide
Line to line,
Perhaps let a comma guide
You here and there
But no stops,
Just inhalations,
Imbibation
Of free flowing sentences
That carry you comfortably afloat,
To the fluid denouement
Of the poem I wrote