it's the morbid fear to tickle the pen against paper -
and behold; the fear to connect the matchstick to the taper
to stay on, till the sun shoots
to pick out thoughts, from their roots

counting syllables and rhyming words:
they don't matter much.
for look at the birds
they put freedom on  your heart with a single touch

no
i can't rhyme no more no
my continuum is hampered
by your wholesome self oh so patient
quatrains and dissection no
feelings and love

and how i mutter words
this is how you make me feel, boy

incoherent yet filled with passion
i can't think but i managed a few adjectives for you
this is how you make me feel, boy

you bewilder me
and
oh
-