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Jenny Gordon May 2019
Oh yes.  You ARE jealous--


Thou and thy hangdog airs!  In sheer betrayl,
You started it.  My brother told me thence
Who left?  and I said "...I don't care from hence
Cuz--(nevermind)."  So who is now to scale
'Non showing off that, erm, I do?!  In frail
Excuse for all this foolishness, whose sense
Has fueled this madness?!  Yours, for all intents.
Yet wherefore do we thus go on sans bail?
I swear, no sooner do I throw as twere
The towel in on this game, but lo, twon't do.
You're back in gear to circumvent my poor
Attempts at moving on.  You like me too?
No, that can't be.  But oh!  Tomorrow.  You're
What, eh?  Not jealous of my smiles, are you?

Okay.  *slams his door to let me know he begs to differ with my bravado that "I don't care about--" and: YOU win.
Jenny Gordon Oct 2017
...there's NO excuse for me.


Mists haunt the sodden valley with a sense
I only finger, and you don't know, pale
As mere words ever are, how much in frail
Excuse I love your loving me, and thence
How badly I want:  ALL.  You won't from hence
Believe me, 'til you own aught inch, who'd hail
My kissing with "so THIS is Jenny--" scale
What you kin have, clothes on, and where's defense?
I'm NOT "in love," though oddly as it were
All YOURS upon the very instant you
Desire, as putty in your hands.  But you're
So much a:  man, which term denotes why "woo"
Is such a pretty thing is't?  So then, stir
Me when you want, and whate'er shall I do?

You...words never shall manage to describe people in a very real sense.
Anastasia Webb Jul 2014
without the knowledge and cyber presence
of  you  and  your           awareness  of  my
presence   (so   I                thought),   I   am
feeling    more                            and    more
unjustified,                                      groping,
unloved,                                                ugly
dissatis                                                   fied
lon                                                           ely
e                                                                m
p                                                                 t
Anastasia Webb Apr 2014
I don’t want to write yet another poem about you
about your gorgeous words,
and how they trickle like honey down my neck.
about the sweet way you seem to like
to email me.
for no reason at all.
about your smile, your laugh
and the way they just suit your face
so well.
about the fact that you once surreptitiously
asked for my number.
about the way you under-state things.
about your eyes.
about the curves of your lips.
about your glasses
and braces.
it’s creepy.
i really need to stop writing
about you.

— The End —