Seeking my ideal match,
I'm often greeted with a rude reality,
There isn't one.

In this crowded world,
I was made to accept singleton state,
'Coz the gender ratio ain't equal.

Living alone demands a lot,
A lot of strength from a guy,
And that guy has to be strong.

Incidentally, that guy is me.

My entire heart rested with a young lad,
Who desired a body different than the one he had.
With physical features that didn't match,
His inside self, which couldn't be snatched.

But beauty revealed itself in his eyes,
Whenever he was with the one who dispelled the lies.
I know beauty when I come into its embrace,
And boy, that beauty emanates from the smile on your face.

Things are hard, and you just don't match,
But that's okay, you're a hell of a ******.
You're entitled to my beating heart,
Where you've definitely become a part.

Please don't fret for future days,
Keep staring into my loving gaze.
One day it'll all change,
And happiness will be within range.

I ain't seeing a thing, till I see the color of your money.

Strike me down
And
I will light
A FIRE
Up under your
*****

¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯
⌘                            well, sure,                            ⌘
she is a poet, alright,
but quite a peculiar one.
the quill on her escritoire
has worn brittle. and it's
inkwell is mostly dry, but
not from good use. i believe
it was knocked over by her
spooked, yet shamefully
neglectful cat one stormy
afternoon. it was monday,
i'm quite sure. to elaborate
a little further, the cat's name
is 'monday.' honestly, i am not
that good at remembering days;
though, i do believe—yes, it was, in fact,
a monday.
⌘                                                        ­                  ⌘
regardless
of monday's impromptu housecapades,
the inkwell sat dry and unused;
yet, she still authors such rich,
beautiful poetry. she'll never
use fancy words and rarely
ever speaks, but i do know
that i am her muse. she'll
never confess that much,
but i am positive they’re
for me. i feel her scrawl her
loyal verse upon my fragile,
calloused heart; they have
made change within me.
i'm her living poetry and
i love her—i need her—
she is Quill and i'm
⌘                          her Paper.                          ⌘