Im trying to write from this combative heart,
Connecting  these words that are falling apart,
The frustration I feel sitting at this desk,
And these cuffs are solid; cardiac arrest.

Now the paper speaks, and yearns for ink,
But the pen is selfish, and it's hard to think;
For the ***** that loves is now isolated.
Serving time, to restore feelings dehydrated.

And sweat falls as I stare down the clock,
Patiently waiting for the warden to knock.  
For real love is free with intensity,  
And intercedes with the spirit's density.

So I release this pen on an ink-less paper,
Calm, just waiting on your intoxicating vapors.
Your perfume, your smile, I will never get enough of,
And when I have some body, I'll entitled it "Love"