A love poem simply does not apply,
for that would imply that I am tolerant of the affections I have.
Alas, I am shamed and rather miffed at the so called delight of nature,
preferring to rather have my eyes pecked out by crows then suffer through heartache.
Not by my own choice do I look over yet again to where you sit,
hoping, praying for merely a glance in my direction.
The hunger is never satisfied.
The heart is never full.
I will never again feel alright.
All my colors are now dull.
Why, pray-tell, must I swoon at every word you speak?
Why must intelligence graze your lips and make my head swirl?
I must tell you, before I take my leave.
That my love is not by choice,
I will do everything in my power to be liberated.
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 1:22 PM UTC
A love poem simply does not apply,
for that would imply that I am tolerant of the affections I have.
Alas, I am shamed and rather miffed at the so called delight of nature,
preferring to rather have my eyes pecked out by crows then suffer through heartache.
Not by my own choice do I look over yet again to where you sit,
hoping, praying for merely a glance in my direction.
The hunger is never satisfied.
The heart is never full.
I will never again feel alright.
All my colors are now dull.
Why, pray-tell, must I swoon at every word you speak?
Why must intelligence graze your lips and make my head swirl?
I must tell you, before I take my leave.
That my love is not by choice,
I will do everything in my power to be liberated.
