I love the way you hold me,
Your arms around me tight;
The whisper in my ear,
That make everything alright.

The way you listen to me,
Every single thing I say;
The way your eyes make me melt,
Like a popsicle on a hot summers day.

I love the feeling of your lips,
Gently placed on mine;
I love this feeling of warmth you give me,
I love the way you shine.

I love spending countless hours,
laughing along with you;
I hate to fight and argue,
Over stupid things, it’s true

I want to be yours forever,
With you everyday;
Spending countless hours,
Saying the words we love to say.

‘I love you’

There are those special times
When you listen to a lovers heart
When the poetry always rhymes
And the words are easy to start

When those decisions in your head
Turn out to be the right thing
And all the things you have said
Show the love that you bring

So you look deep into her eyes
You can see her love and desire
And everything that she tries
Does not hide a passion of fire

You know that she is the one
You have spent your life searching for
She always makes your heart beat on
And for that, you love her more

In your arms you take her
In her kiss you are lost
Just wanting to be here, together
Being with her, no matter what the cost

You love her every touch
Every move that her body makes
You know that you love her so much
So much that your body quakes

You are glad, you were the one she found
And it always makes you smile
You look at her now, without a sound
Staying with her every little while

To her now, you know you belong
She is your every hope
She helps you to be strong
And with her, every problem you cope

So she is the one you will thank
Let her know of the love inside
In her love you have drank
And now, your love can not hide

I fear the way you love me:
That tender-touching kiss
Seducing me to nightly
Sink deep in your abyss.

Those smooth caresses take me
To places that I dread,
Your cunning fingers rouse me
To plan such lies ahead.

But while we writhe and tumble
In lust's hypnotic hold,
I fear the final stumble
That will see the truth unfold.

If love is the term for what I am feeling,
Then it's too low a word for what I know;
For when in my soft smiling thoughts you glow,
You are the bloom of morning, the star of evening.

Like the lotus that blooms to greet the Sun,
So does my heart beat to greet your heat;
You are the Moon for which my tides beat;
So here blossoms a season of love in the run.

Perhaps I find in your eyes a starry night
Or perhaps an ocean, a sea dipped in emotion,
In which I may reflect, float and swim in seduction
Or may, in that night, delight in flight.

Your smile rises a Sun on my face;
Perhaps that causes your cheeks to bloom roses.
As a returning rose, my heart in itself dresses
And I, toward you, pace with an unmoved gaze.

You flew into my life as a messenger dove,
Blowing into me emotions intense with a message dense
That love is beyond words and human resistance;
I ask you this, my dove, do satisfy my love.

Maybe when the shot is clear.
Maybe when they’re drunk in fear.

They’ll pull the triggers and shoot their guns.
The noise is loud, they’re one on one.

The deed is done, the moon light stirs.
He slowly tangles his hand in hers.

Blood rushing, breathing slow.
Their bodies cold, red in the snow.

The ambulance a haunting purr.
The sirens scream and lights a blur.

Their love was forever, the world will see.
That heaven shines and now they’re free.

I hold your pictures in my hand,
as if they were life itself.
Some torn, some bent, some broken glass,
where I swept them off the shelf.

But now that anger it has passed,
and tears they fill my eyes.
I know you never meant to go.
I too am dead, inside.

Why could we not have had more time,
together you and I?
Before your sickness came along,
and took you from my side.

You fought so hard to stay with me,
and smiled through the pain.
So beautiful and brave you were,
sunshine amongst the rain.

Always I will remember,
and treasure what we had.
The mem'ry of our time together,
makes me happy, makes me glad.

I wish that I could follow you,
but here for now must stay.
To tell our baby of her mom,
and why she went away.

And tears come now not just to me,
as Rachael starts to cry.
I will kiss and hold her close for you,
goodbye my love, goodbye.

Now I'm in the turnips and string beans of poetry:
It's like, you think you'll grow up some day
And live in a two story house with swimming pool,
And a two car garage, with a six pack driveway.
Things turn out differently, though you might think
You'd spend whole days devouring Dickinson, Keats, and Shelley,
Drinking fine wines with tidbits of exotic cheese.

Then you find out you'll live in a one car rented garage apartment,
Over a couple always yelling or making love-
There's no in-between; and you never know which it'll be
And if you're mistaken for the significant other you might get
Bopped with a lady's spiked heel or an army boot.

Then you find out that you're the couple
But you're always too busy to make love;
Love is no longer scheduled like bowling night,
It all depends on uncluttered horizontal surfaces and spare minutes-
And the wine turns into beer, when you can afford it
And the nightly budget pizza is the only dough you'll get
It's constipating; but the words still get squeezed out.

And the poets you're reading now aren't dead:
They're urbanely unkempt, and you know them personally,
All their quirky habits; writing poems at bus stops
In a voluble rush; writing words on cafe napkins,
On discarded want ads and torn paper sacks;
And none of them are well known, and none of them are rich.

But they're poets all the same, they live and breathe
The written word, and you're no different, certainly no better,
All of you shooting up words and slang nightly,
Weighing out the soul of the latest idiom,
Choking on cheap cigar smoke and wishing you'd written that,
And thinking you could have done it worse-
And suddenly some night, you look around you

You realize you're living poetry, and you don't care anymore
About rich and famous- because now it's your addiction;
None of that mattered anyway, for only poetry holds any reality now.
Everything else is imaginary, and all the poets started out this way;
Nobody knew them or gave a rat's ***,
And they went on writing just the same
As if it were the most important job on earth they'd been given.