The heart pumps blood,
And blood is red.
There’s a flow of affection.
But my love is dead.

Clicheic poetry.
The quote is a poem.
I thought it was there.
I thought I was home.

Why not her? I asked.
The answer I seek.
Do I get the truth?
Or is this trick or treat?

I know it exist.
I can’t give up.
Even though there are
Times where I can’t trust love.

There’s pain in this game.
Can I truly win?
Got soul? Got Milk?
Is the drive within?

The worth, the value.
Is it priceless? Or trash.
Is she real?  Is she treasure?
My desirable stash?

How hard do I try?
To make her feel like a
Blessing?
How long do I wait before
I pop the big
Question?

Why can’t she have my mind?
She’s on it all the time.
These thoughts make actions.
They influence these rhymes.
What about my body?
And all its thrills?
Every time I want to hold you,
I feel a special chill.

You’ve got me going crazy.
Insane with goose bumps.
Every day I don’t hear you.
I’m a sad dump.

I want you happy, joyful.
No sadness or regret.
Here, you can have my heart,
But what do I get?