Give me your
crimson mouth
to devour in secret

Help me put out
this burning desire–

All the unspeakable
things I hunger for

Be my muse,
so I can finish
writing this poem

Somebody put me out of my misery,
I've been struck by a curious malady:
I can't seem to stop
writing sappy poetry!

Perhaps it's *** my muse is ineffable,
Can't help if that makes her indelible.

Now the evidence lies before your very eyes,
That she as cause and culprit should pay the price

For all of my absurd sentimentalities
Is a result of her bewitchful tendencies:

Bore a mighty wordsmith
out of a hopeless romantic.
Now this whole shebang
might drive me ballistic

As time passes
I can't seem to find a problem with that though

My muse, my lady malady:
Fine, I'll be the lunatic
Now wouldn't that be poetic??

I know,
my love,
my muse,
I have always known

I knew that this would
be our last conversation,
but this is not my last poem

It pained me deeply,
but I knew that one day
I will slowly start to forget
your loving face,
bewitching scent,
and soothing voice

Oh, how I loved you
I knew I will still love you
even after you desert me

I knew it,
but I still held your small hand
I still worshiped you in secret
I still adored you blindly

And I still do

can i tell you a secret?
some days, when the sky is its darkest hue
and the clouds are a light gray-blue
i write poetry.
it's all about you.