I find that the poems I write about you
lack the impressive metaphors and stanzas.
They are less raw, less ******, less bleak,
than the lines I wrote previously.

I find that the poems I write about you
are half empty, or half full. There is a void
in my brain, because I'm not sure
if your eyes are more of a cerulean or a sapphire.

I used to have another "blue eyed wonder,"
although now, in hindsight, I see that
he was not wondrous, he was unexceptional,
and you are more worthy of that title.  

But, my poems are suffering at your ubiquity,
as I cannot find the suitable analogies. And it
makes me question how true we could be.

If I can tell you my innermost feelings in a heartbeat,
is this a sincere, an unfeigned, a dependable love?
Or just another opportunity for me to get hurt?