my love life with words
has a hidden side,
at times i even think:
"is it the curse of the witch
in a dream called me ' poet'
to carry this along, all life long?"

a never ending itch,
that only exhilarates,
and makes me *****
more than ever.
                        as a poet,
words of certain nature,
winged birds, that fly high
to a higher level few reach,
enrapture me more than others.

so much passion gush out,
at the very first sight,
like when i was deeply involved
with a girl, first.

but here is the secret
that leads to a long love affair:
             i make love like a libertine,
pulling out all the stops,
but later the true color
of  the relationship emerges,

i can't put up with post ****** hatred,
it's a poison that kills all  lust for life,

when i embrace a word
i have this fervent wish in mind:
"oh! word, that binds me with
such  fragrance, color and mood,
embrace me, let me feel your pulse,
permeate your warmth in to my heart
color my mind with your brush"

i love to relish each word,
like a fresh, ripe, pulpy fruit,
let there be no seed to spit.
O