Don't worry darling, how crowded
The market square is.
I am always up early, and never
Miss a hanging.

I will run with the cure, I might get distracted buy I'll always make it
When you are getting sick,
And impatient.

The chills and sweats
Drilling through your mind,
Will vanish as I walk in.
I know the despair of feeling
Sick
And impatient.

                                                     (Oh Lord hear our prayer)

I introduced you to this world,
Brought your innocence with me
In a sinful satchel,
And lost you under the bridge.

Or

Were you already here?
Waiting for me,
Sick
And
Impatient.

I followed the sent of your perfume,
Venturing through the tangles of your hair.
And
We ended up right back where we started.
Getting sick.
And,
Feeling impatient.

                                   Oh Lord hear my prayer

About twenty seven hours
Until I see you.

And only one more night
Until we spend the night together.

And only one more morning,
Until I wake up to you.

And less than twenty four hours
Until I change into the dress I want to wear.

There's only one day, three hours
And fifty nine minutes
Until my hand will be in yours again,
And I'll be able to see you,
Really, actually see you.
Colors and all.

My feet are planted in today,
But
My mind wanders into the past
And yet,
My heart yearns for the future.

Verily, verily I beseech thee
Come hither to me
While the warmth
Of your person is ever before thee
Come lately
You have missed me
Be swift and you'll meet me
Verily, verily I beseech thee
Come hurriedly to me

Impatience, someone I once knew.
Impatience, you may know him too.
He knows me
like he knows you.
He treats us different.
He treats us same.
Sometimes he makes us feel insane.
He understands just how we feel
and to his power we will kneel.
Follow his orders
for he is wise.
He takes over
and makes us cry.
He makes us angry
because he knows what we are anti
but to his power we will kneel
because he tells us how to feel.

I don't just want to feel your lips against mine;
     I want your tongue teasing me,
     Your teeth biting me,
     And your breath warming me.

I don't just want your fingers to please me;
     I want one enterwined with mine,
     While the other leaves fingerprints all over me,
     Searching for the sea.

I don't just want your body pressed with mine,
     I want your hips moving slowly with me,
     I want to be handled so roughly there's left over
     evidence the next morning,
     I want to fight for control til I'm pinned to the
     bed and left at your mercy.

There is no one way I imagine ******* you.
But each one will leave us exhausted and satisfied,
And I don't plan on being very patient.

Dontcha just hate trying to finish a poem?
It's always like there could be just a hint of this, a dash of that;
too much seasoning, not enough time spent simmering;
did you use the right amount of ingredients;
was it tablespoons or teaspoons?

Dontcha wish you could just pluck one out of the freezer:
One wrapped up in a neat little package?
Leaving it on the stove-top to thaw a little,
before heating it up at your timely convenience?

I wish I knew when these **** things were done;
Wish I could stick em in a microwave, clock in the allotted time for a work like that to be well-cooked and consumable--
Wait around zoning out to the droning tone of the toasting note,
then awake from my spell by the sweet dinging of completion.

I'd take that steamy sucker out of that commodious kiln
in such great haste I can barely hold it in my hands!
"Boy oh boy does this one look tasty!"

I'd sit down with my necessary utensils and have a go at it, chewing thoughtfully and enjoying this wonderful piece I have prepared by myself for myself--and without all the hassle and wasted time
spent slaving over books and pages and pens and inspirations!

But ****;
Nobody likes poems cooked out of pre-made packages;
they're a little too rubbery, a little too mushy, a little too bland--
and worse off they were made by the assemblyman's hand! (or claw).

Nobody likes their poems coming out of pre-made packages;
They ain't nothing like the real thing.

When hope
has reached the door
the wait is worst

It takes time to find the right words
Conceiving them so they may blossom
A construct of words, a piece of art
The perfectionist hidden inside a poets heart

Though impatient he is
Eager to find the most beautiful words
He's rushing it, he's writing too fast
A bad poem he wrote, he's seeing aghast

The impatient poet retries again
A simple relapse it won't happen once more
As he's rushing, he didn't learn from the past
Poetry needs time, he noticed at last