Look at all those other girls.
You call them cute.
Do you like them better than me?
I do not envy them one bit.
Maybe it is all for the best.
They may be more attractive
on the outside,
but I have something they do not.
A soul full of passion,
A heart full of love,
Dreams that are immense;
expanding so far
it is a wonder they do not
block out the sun.
Dreams that only
Warriors of Light
dare to dream.
is what you would treasure about me,
if you ever loved me at all.
Though from fairytale
Princesses less attractive
Many a man fails
A quality love
She could give
As much as
She could receive.
Integrity and honesty
Adored by her
Enjoying a marital bliss
It is a fortune
Long ,with her to live!
Don’t look at his arms now.
Stiff and swollen, small muscles
curled in like a mountain:
needing someone to open the gym
an hour to workout.
That arm held the weight,
made the ladies say
ripped and attractive.
Don’t think of his heart
behind thick abs flirting
with girls, his voice
drowning in grunts and moans,
his daily routine.
Think of the bodybuilder who slid
3 steriods down scaffolding esophaguses,
who stood up to Death the Dealer
for more hits to take on.
Keep him the image of the unhealthy,
straight-backed on the gym floor
in sickness, sighing
from his choice.
Keep his image holding
needles, syringes, and pills,
bringing your heartbeat down
not on the muscle,
your mind’s logic sweeping off fantasies.
I can write thousands of lines,
detailing why beauty is a lie...
How it has condemned thousands of lives
and why it matters little and often ends in vanity.
I can crush the idea, reject the sentiment,
and have already favoured imperfection.
But these lines, this vocabulary so vibrant,
shall finally relish in beauty's delectation.
Beauty is beauty, no matter how hollow
and passion is passion no matter how shallow.
To be stunned, unmoving in someone's presence,
is not a small, perverted thing; it's our very essence.
Our nature, our passion, the things that make us human
manifesting themselves in stupidity and emotion so tiresome.
But it never gets tiresome, it never gets old,
picking that person out of the crowd and losing hold...
The moment you blink, or pinch your skin,
just to make sure you're seeing something.
To ensure you're awake, with head light,
you think about how you got here tonight
and you stare and stare and stare...
Just enchanted, unsure if you can even talk to her.
That moment of grating apprehension,
is the beginning (and ending) of Cupid's invitation.
Because you can't move, you can't blink,
few syllables escape your lips as you can't think.
Those deep blue eyes have frozen you to a statue
and the whip-crack of her black hair has you shattered.
You feel like you're in pieces, you feel as though you're at her knees...
How is she so beautiful, how does she not see? Herself and me...
Then you realise, she can't see you, not ever
because then she'd speak to you and you'd die from fever.
Utterly destroyed, broken, stuck in a stalemate
and cowering, in fear of only drawing her hate.
You want her, you need her, she's at the worlds centre
and for a time, her love doesn't even matter.
You adore her features, her voice of angelic melody
and her voluptuous curves drawing your eyes to her body.
For a moment, you take pleasure in her beauty
and then you're wondering, could this ever be?
You're back to being stunned, will she notice you?
You blink and she's near, of course she will.
Then she's looking at you, extending a hand;
and taller than you, your hairs stand on end.
You smile weakly, say something stupid, kick yourself
and she smiles at you, she smiles and you worry for your health.
For her stare, her happiness, makes your heart pound harder;
fearing heart attack, you don't know if you can go any farther.
Her voice is like velvet to your ears, you swoon
and soon you're dancing to her effortless tune.
She is everything, after doing completely nothing
and you desire her happiness more than anything.
You'd die, just to preserve her effortless perfection
but you can't even word your boundless affection.
For this girl doesn't see what you see, she sees little beauty;
when her eyes meet the mirror, they feed frustration gently.
It's a pity, that she doesn't see what your eyes do
but who can say which perception is truth?
Both are true, in one way or another
as a Human's perception is a world builder.
So long as beauty inspires and stuns
another Human is flooded with emotions.
These emotions excite us, they make our world less mundane
and witnessing something beautiful is the highway to pleasure and pain.
trying to explain you, how you make me feel.
it's like trying to describe the entire universe in detail.
you have legitimate galaxies in those eyes.
i spent weeks trying to figure out what color they are.
i'm still not sure.
all i know is how they sparkle with the brilliance of the sun,
when you smile, when you do the things you love to do.
you smile far too often for an adolescent male,
not that i'm complaining.
what a wonderful mystery;
you sing clear and loud when others bite their tongue,
and even find joy in it.
it's kind of hard not to fall for you.
love at first sight was never real,
but it only took four months.
i swear i will try again and again,
to describe how you make me feel.
not because i can (because i know i cannot)
but because i must.
you, you're a breath of fresh air, did you know that?
but i can't hold my breath forever.
i must let you out, every word, every detail.
what is it with you and music?
every song makes me think of you,
and yet when i'm with you, all i hear is music.
am i going mad?
if i am, i blame it on you.
your sweatshirts which make you instantly more attractive,
your little obsessions,
the things that make you smile
(oh goodness how can i not love something that makes you smile)
well, screw it.
i could go on and on,
but no one wants to hear this piece of garbage i call poetry.
please don't ever read this.
The more you fall in love
The more attractive he becomes
She is as untrustworthy as she is attractive;
her persona eluding as her personality;
she schemes more or less simple as her tone;
her tomboy nature not to be structured;
she is fluid in her ways but solid in her destiny;
and he, an inquisitive mind seeking the impossible;
seeking the unreachable, searching the unattainable.
Pity them, and their hideous loves,
as pretty a phenomenon as they have seen,
as grotesque as the dearest truths
in their hearts of hearts
from where they've been.