The question is Where to begin? Why, with honest heart And boldly sin! And sin I must Against myself Pinning the inkwell A bespoken purpose --The poetic confession Since speech commands silence And advances regression. My courage it falters And guts turn all queer Neither could reckon With our distances near And confessing this outright Is just plain absurd, I hope I have made My cowardice clear. True, this is petty And prideful at best Poem’s the proper vehicle lest My weakness runs wild As ornery thoughts And binds up my tongue And stomach in knots. But onward! I bore you! My pen spitting gibb'rish Thinking sense and writing none I’m too far to turn back And the day is yet won! But can I be blamed For nerves all on end When the single string in every thought Goes day’s beginning to its end And all around and back again? This whole semester I’ve felt a fool Beside this mind of eloquence Of enervating sensation Like, I, a simple candle And auroras’ collocation On the clearest luminescent night With incensing breeze blown left and right, Coupled with creative flair And womanly chic, short, brown hair I’m distracted, diverted stupidly A boy's been made Of the man in me. I’m a mustard seed among Religious men, And profanation blossoms Brought to transcendent, if divine heights My words reaching an Elysian place Touching new Heavens With (excuse the pun) Grace. Please don’t hold daft obligation That you must reciprocate The sentiments, here, laid before you And mushiness innate But the purpose is here Not to woo Nay, to salve this tiny, Yet consumptive flu So for stoic, normal me This is something radically new. So excuse the upheaval And heavily borne load It’s just perseverance Through pessimistic mode, I know this is weighty And clichéd and trite But I've been made weary (And that’s creepy a mite) Through countless embattled days And resultant restless nights With no intention to do so. I hope this has struck you Not perturbed or amused Because right now I’m trembling Sclerotic and bruised And will follow, oh follow This to its end; To see this message Read in your hands. But until then, condemned To sleep sad and wake gaily To think only one thought And think that thought daily And thought is of you Of you, –.