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What do I do to prove my worth and show my love for you?

I might ride a mighty raging steed to defend my maiden’s honor.
I could.
Well, maybe not. I’m very bad with horses.
I’d just fall off and bust my ***.
It would be a bit absurd.

I could pick you every daisy, rose, and mum; every flower in the world.
I could.
And make a huge bouquet.
But that would make you sneeze, I think
and no one else has flowers.

I could bring you down the moon and stars from their home up in the sky.
I could.
But where the hell would you possibly put them.
Your closet can’t have near the room,
and it’ll cause havoc in the tides.

I could give you the beating heart from my chest to prove my endless love.
I could.
For truth, no—I don’t think I could.
I kinda need it now to live and,
well, frankly that’s really rather gross. I mean…yuck.

How do I prove my love for you and convince you of my worth?

I hold your hand.
I hear your voice.
I kiss your lips.
I give you all my time.
For such a love as you
I could.
Life is better if you embrace the absurd, I think. It can broaden the possibilities and sometimes make you smile.
My ex showed-up again today.
Although, she’s not been here for years.
I wish she’d go away.

I feel, once more, that stabbing bite;
That poison dagger in my back
that twists at thoughts of her.

Those certain songs I hear at night,
or in some random woman’s hair
re-lives when love went bad.

But painful memories will fade;
at least that’s what I’ve heard them say.
Time heals the broken heart.

I wonder when that starts.
Let go of hurtful memories (do as I say, not as I do.)
These days I dredge the past
                 for the kind of  pain
                      that used to drive
                        my words. Heartache
                 was the fuel of poetry
            and I drove those lines
                                  like a madman.
But, now that tank runs dry,
          which, I guess, is a good
                                  thing really.
Now lucky in love, but wasn't always. So why does it seem so much easier to write good poetry from the bad sh^t that plagues us than to record the good that happens?
I have a universe
in my pocket... and some
lint. The world
at my fingertips,
all knowledge awaits
and forty two cents
in change rattles next to it.
I have a universe
in my pocket and what...? I
use it to watch cat videos
and trade petty barbs
with fellow trolls under a bridge.
Looking into shadow.
That place back there
     where light won’t go.
and I see…
                      …me
A me, I think, not me.
I’m not that thing,
sorrowful wretch,
a broken soul that peers back
from the blackness I deny.

I Am Me! but me won’t let me go.

**** You!
( **** me…?)
**** this…

“Shadow, won’t you let me go?” I ask. And
I answer…

But, as yet, I will not hear him speak.
Does a tree dream of running?
Does a lake wish to fly?
A boulder in the woods, I think,
thinks slow and mossy thoughts,
for that is who it is.
So why can’t I be me
and dream a dream that’s meant to be?
I was reading elle jaxsun's  "running" when this thought came to me -- what do trees dream?
Do you recall being stardust?
I don’t.
But, that’s what they say.
Elements forged in fusion’s crucible;
atoms born in the hearts of stars.
Do you recall being a comet’s tail?
Do you recall a time in space?
I don’t,
but then, it’s been a while.
Do you recall the lakes and streams;
swimming as fish,
or being water?
Do you recall the plains
when we roamed as beasts,
great and small?
Were you an antelope, a butterfly, a bird?
Were you a flower?
Were you Cleopatra?
Was I…Anthony, or just
some tea in Cleopatra’s cup?
(Did Cleopatra even drink tea?
I don’t know.)
Do you recall when you said
you loved me?
I do.
They told me,
“don’t fall in love with stardust.”
But then, what choice did I have?
we are all star dust.
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