Do you know not of how badly I want to sing my song to you?
how much, how often I yearn
to reach out to you, “my something”,
and utter a florid cacophony of emotion past my thin lips
and into your ears?
Although I have already written you prose
this provides a paltry effort
to soothe the innate desire for me to sing.
“This I believe”; it feels of but a modicum,
inadequate to depict your lithe stature,
and unworthy of your alluring azure eyes.
Oh, if only it were as simple to sing as the others make it seem.
But how are they to know truly of my turmoil,
my struggle between the face of perfection
and the face of regret should I keep safe my song?
It could have been any face, I suppose,
but what is a face to me if not to be backed by good nature?
Because of this, singing is not aided, only ailed,
and not only behind the face does lie a brilliant disposition,
but is on the surface polished to mint at every angle.
And if in the case this face was not so,
I would not have a song to sing.
Thus I am fearful,
for it is I who knows not of how you will react if I sing my song.
Cowering in the corner, disheveled and wild;
I: the peasant,
and you: the king.
Two worlds that are never meant to cross,
two realities remaining untouched by the other.
And on that ill-fated day,
when finally the peasant exercises her lungs,
will the king banish her,
sending the peasant back to grovel?
or, perhaps,
will the king accept the peasant into his court?
and, on that slim chance,
would the peasant,
feeling welcome enough,
allow herself the privilege to trot on such holy ground?
Probably not,
for did the king ever want to hear her song at all?
Yet a time will come still,
with the crowning of a new sun on the horizon,
when the peasant must decide;
will she admit her song to the king?
Or will forever she remain safe in her silence,
safe in the unknown judgement of the king?
I swear, I'll be forever editing this poem the way I'm going
