I insist,
I write best
when my heart's broken
and I'm sitting here
on my throne
contemplating
my next move.

The first time was tough,
quite experimental,
I sat & I wondered,
could I actually go through with it,
take them all by surprise,
spray them with crafted-word,
drive verses deep into their hearts
& wear my emotions on my sleeves,
then go back into hiding?
Could I lie unknown,
in the same universe as you,
with my thoughts still racing,
until the next outburst?

But the need and the need and the need,
this incessant craving to be read,
to scribe more and more and more,
to get these sacred demons out,
to release my tormented soul,
to ******* my mind
into tiny bit and pieces,
to feel the rush,
of this euphoria,
I must!

O my unforgotten memories,
do you feel them,
do you feel me,
my eyes are rolling back in my head,
thinking of this crazy love.

On and on and on they go,
my mirror images of you
& one is never enough.

Unless I stop
soon,
I insist
poetry will be
the death of me.

But O Sweet Darling,
my pretty jubilee,
look,
just look
at that wonderful
moon.

I'm sick,
I'm dying
here
with glee.

See me...
read me...

quick.

I write ten a day
my mind says, "Don't quit!"

The odist of a perfect bloom, without a doubt, with an upsurge of emancipated lust and all that was utterly free; that was you or maybe I should say, that was him.

And he was mine

He was mine…
But I did not possess him. I merely peeked in to his garden, my hands a mess of failed tries, which was bounded by the thorns I wasn’t quite strong enough to climb. I could not own an entity that made so many lust after his seamless embrace and at the same time, that which was petrifying.

Yet he felt lost in my gaze as if what he perceive in them made him fear what he saw in the reflections of his own mirror less. He watched me as though he could not believe one with so much to lose could fall in love with what he was in the most unconditional of ways.

Such a paradox.

He was perfect…
He was my perfection; the only genuine thing I could not find faults upon; a mangled piece of reality that made sense to my disheveled head. He was beautiful in a way that transcended what was ugly, what was fearful and unwanted. He was beauty that did not ask for permission or perspective but a force that was based on a whirlwind, pulling you in to his center.

He was my obsession…
For the longest of times, I did not believe there could be one as such with an absolute hold over another. It did not, nay, could not make sense for I was raised to believe free will was always at play.

Until then…
Until I discovered him…
Until I found he could be my reality and my reality could be in complete sync with his. It did not take time for my mind to wrap around this notion, because, conceivably, that is what obsession truly is, the complete loss of oneself in to the universe of another. Out of nowhere, free will was an illusion, a lie I would willingly let go; it was conundrum I found silly and not in need have. Why would I? There are non that plead fidelity and show restraint.

He made me believe he could be mine while he remained as many others and still I found no fault with his words. My needs transformed in to devotion, in to blind belief that there could not be one as graceful as he or nothing that could keep me wanting. My world was engulfed by a touch that was always so near and yet so far, just enough to have me keep the leash on my neck.

He could be my perfect obsession.

He was it.

"Love conquers all,"
Aphrodite said.

"That's true,"
cried the vanquised lover.

"It destroys everything,"
wrote the odist.

Stutter,
Patrons ain't
often a city list en-
close lying odist arts
pea king smoothly the truth.
Amen.

St. Utter,
Patron Saint
of tenacity, listen
closely: in God I start
speaking smoothly the truth.
Amen.