So many poets attack with words,
With the intent to hit you on the first line.
Like a clunky sword or strand of steel,
Which couldn't so much as break through twine.

To which I would say,
That you must first name and know yourself,
Or at least your opponent,
Before you try and sway or slay them with a single line.

Such poetry would mean to me,
Little more than a stick,
In a sword fight with a gigantic tree.

Try not to aim for the heart immediately,
But approach the chest,
And hum your bladed words through the air most rhythmically.
Until an opening you do see for such an acute verse as me.

Deliver then a heavy blow,
A fatal strike.
Which will leave the readers lying in the streets,
Bleeding out of relief and not out of agony and disbelief.

This is the creature which commands my heart?
Which demands my respect and defines my reasons,
For which I refuse to depart?  

This creature in front of me.

What must I try,
Or even ask why?  

Is it a need to impress upon the rest?
That I was I,
Or that she was somehow best for me?

For I have since gone on to see,
That she is but a creature,
And that I am but a small shard of humanity.

Is there proof of this,
Which I have missed?
Quite possibly.

Or am I somehow immune to the truth,
That I am the only one who sees,
Or that my soul alone is the one which pleads,
To be apprciated?

Would you tell me this?

Or is life just meant to be,
A bitter tasting hollow test which I must best,
In a single man’s own exclusivity?

Why must I define such a simple thing?
Why can we not just coincide with empathy?

But to say that joy and empathy are the same,
Is nothing more than a lie to me.

Only recently have I begun to understand,
That I must stand,
Alongside a girl who is not the result of a lesser man.

One who knows the self and serves not pride.
Show me such a creature before my eyes,
And my heart will fly.