I think you refuse me simply because I don’t give you any reasons to. I told you I didn’t care about your past or about your afflictions I told you that I would accept your flaws and show you love because of them. I told you that I would respect you unlike anyone who you’ve known.
And yet now I’m the imperfectd counterpart of whom can’t receive love.
I guess I’m oxymoronic. Because I’m so eager to accept the flaws of people who won’t accept mine.
Hush….. can you hear that? It’s my heartbeats every time she comes close. I wonder if she can hear it when she passes. I wonder if anyone else can. When she’s close by, I sense it, I sense an impending nervousness and the calm as we talk. I wonder can she feel it too.
It’s just something about the way she moves, something about the little details of everything about her, she has me mesmerized whenever our eyes match. Hard to imagine the images that appear in my mind when our eyes lock, and I always see her. When they replay in my memory, I understand. For only angels can wear halos. I wonder what she sees.
There’s something in the air that makes each word she makes as palatable as ginger ale. Her voice is so mellifluous that it makes my spirit hunger for emotional stimulation. I imagine long talks in sunset milieus. I imagine deeper conversations that I rarely have anymore and crippling displays of imaginative love that I’m not even sure I’d be able to provide. But with every thought, the air gets sweeter with released thoughts. I wonder if she tastes it too.
Green apple goddess, cherry cheeks of cherished charms, her flavors speak of delicious intimacy. We constantly contrast in such distinct ways like flavor and spice. Her graceful decadence contrasting with my cinnamon smile and cayenne complements. I wonder if she identifies the fragrance.
She is a tease to my brain and a testament to my imaginative nature, but I’d love to toy with her senses the way she toys with mine. Sending her brain racking the walls of consciousness trying to categorize me based on those she’s known. Yet our individual uniqueness’s make us stick out to one another. I ponder her intentions, as pure as they seem, and I always get the same idea. The Idea that she’s the embodiment of me. The embodiment of my curiosity.
In truth, I am a Wildman swinging an ax. Where was the tree when I was burying my weapon into the helpless? Why am I still in a hush over the things I shouldn’t even be thinking about? Why do I call myself a poet and why is it that the kind of poems I do are about something that I’ve barely felt. It’s Ironic, isn’t it? My soul dries up as people soak each other in liquid love. My heart burns as people kiss around me. I don’t feel jealousy, just a longing. A longing for that taste that I used to know. A longing for the cuisine of love and all its benefits. For even though I only had a taste of something I considered basic I still hunger for what I had. I still hunger for that flavor
It’s like my life flashes before I can grip it I think too much about what I try to say, and always end up messing my words up. I can’t fix it. It’s grown on my Growth A product of time. A sapling is born in a soul, that soul is tormented and the sapling struggles for life. But the sapling endures in the freezing temperatures. It knows it will blossom to become a true self-revelation. When will this sapling become a tree? Only time will tell
If she lies once more about where she was, I swear I might hit her. She’s playing with my emotion, a force she’s never extracted from me before. And It bothers me.
If she lies about why she smells like cologne again, I might get on my knees and cry. She knows my delicacy, yet she still is determined to melt my silicon soul.
Jilted presence, ever-present guilt in her eyes, I can taste the sweat of betrayal on her cheeks. She has broken my spirit and my longing for love.
If she breaks me one more time, I just might leave…. But I always come back. She has become my only reality, the only thing I’ve really claimed to love. And I’ve given her so much power that now I need her
A thought crossed my mind last night. What if I loved you? What if we actually became intimate? What if our little flirts developed into something more like those that I know. What if we became more than casual passes in the hallways? What if we became closer than whatever we are now? Would you be cool with that? A question came to my head yesterday. Why am I searching for a phantom? Why is it that I look unknowingly for a love that I could give an honest **** about? How is it that I’m stuck in the past looking for something to fill that which I only had a taste of? How is it that even under the pressures of life I still have enough space in my schedule to stress over love? Do you know what love is? Because I wouldn’t mind teaching you. Would you be cool with that? What if we gave each other our minds, what if we developed into something that even we had no clue about? Would you be cool with that? In this dark world, would you be cool with me holding your hand and leading the way? Would you be ok with showing an interest in a forsaken soul who shows an interest in you? Would you be ok with speaking in private and kissing in public? Would you accept my invitation to entwine fingers and chat the world away? Or Am I Just Dreaming?
How many punches can the human heart take before breaking? How many strikes can there be before a person is down? Maybe she could tell you. She’s a player, and I’m not talking baseball. She plays with hearts, she plays with emotion until the emotion is drained and you are most vulnerable. She is a demon of heaven but a hellion angel. Wonderfully wizardry but her spells send a mind into self-tension. And I have been bewitched. Bewitched by her fragrance, by the taste of her lips, by her mind and what I thought was the real her. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I was actually hypnotized by this beauty. Maybe she wasn’t who she was, but I would’ve thought I was who I was supposed to be. Who Am I? Who was she? Where am I in this world of deceit and trickery? A chef of misery, cooking up a fresh batch with every new victim, so sensual yet so senseless The touch of duplicity.