I will scare you with words,
Of the beautiful sort.
Those loving, but to self,
You're not allowed to report.
I'd make you believe,
In a world full of dreams,
But you prefer, in it's stead,
All those alkaline streams.
As muse, you'd release,
And as poet, I'd lay.
But you'll not accept beauty
As your own, (well, not today).
So I'll write of the ocean,
I'll write of shorestones,
Until you accept full your symphony,
And let me play out your tones.