I want the poetry to mean something tonight,
              as I pace in my bedroom for hours
                                      under jaundiced fluorescent light.

                     I want to write something profound and true,
something of solvence to rid the demons to which I'm glued.

Ulysses

Bound​ by these chains

I am forsaken.  
Abandoned by His blessing

I am ******
to a suffering eternal.

The shackles which grasp my feet grow tighter with every step I take.
The unbending ​fastening held by the constraints around my neck becomes narrow as it breaches my flesh
Granting me only enough air to stay conscious

But I am not apperceptive, I am not cognizant,
I do not understand.

I would sacrifice my heart for the savor​ of authentic human affection

For the sensation of a kiss can only linger in my mind for so long
the saccharine taste shall cease eventually
Oh, my sweet, sweet propensity

Like Ulysses
I wish for wax, to block out the melodious call of that siren song
To impede the outside noise of those whom I will never truly feel

I yearn to rewind time like the wheels of a broken watch
And return to yesterday,
For I met affection then
if only for a moment.

My eyes are on the screen,
but my mind is on your hand,
lying pensively on the arm rest,
the screen's flashes dancing upon its frame--

Exposing the space between fingers I'm dying to cease.

Your hand lies there like a puzzle piece--
My heart races and fingers twitch
as my mind interlocks them with yours
to complete an image of grace,
one I've fantasized for nights on end.

Your eyes are set forward as mine,
I cannot even fathom what lies behind
this silent countenance of beauty.

How wholly engrossed are you in this movie,
are you tormented same as I?

As far as I'm concerned,
we are the only ones in this theater.

The popcorn in my lap,
the soda in the cup holder between us,
moments where our fingers touch
then retreat--
All without our eyes ever leaving the screen,
peripheral fantasies.

But that's where my intentions lie,
your hand dancing with mine
in the corner of my eyes
and the forefront of my mind.

How you weave through the popcorn,
your hand bumping against mine like an atom,
plucking the greasy morsel
and tossing it into your mouth--

What if our fingers lingered?

The soda our lips shared at separate times,
a middle-man between a kiss
I could only dream of.

These transient ecstasies
that pale in comparison
to the real thing.

But I'll take it,
in these peripheral games we play
in a darkened movie theater
on a Tuesday night.

Matinee screening,
our parents waiting impatiently in the parking lot outside,
nearing the end of the movie,
I've yet focused your hand in the frame--
These peripheral games.

Lay with me,
Sweet Poetry.

I prostrate myself
atop your holy temple,
amassing desperate yearning kisses
down your strong-legged pillars.

Weaving in and out of your corridors,
through the garden, your hair falling around me
like roots, like falling leaves--

But I dare not enter your hallowed chambers.

I am a ******, Sweet Poetry.

I have sauntered through the courtyard,
never the courts,
I have tread in the waters of your fountain,
never submerged in your bath,
I've danced around the holy fire,
but never touched my flesh to the healing flame.

Are the walls to your inner sanctum made of concrete,
or something impalpable?
My mind can play ***** tricks,
flagellating a million reasons why our love is for naught,
and why my body should shrivel and fade away before you.

I am a ******, Poetry,
and what love and demons I have in reserve,
I lay at your feet.

I'll linger if you'll stay,
sleeping sound at your side,
your breath on my skin,
your body warm against my shivering frame.

Pluck the maiden fruit from my aching tree,
lay with me,
Sweet Poetry.