I feel like I hurt you.
I know I didn't
but it feels like I did.
You're making yourself feel like I did
so now I do too.
You think I feel nothing for you
so you think you're nothing to me
but yet and still,
I feel like I hurt you.

It's not my fault that you forgot
that I'm a risk.
But see you "forgot"
so at one point,
you knew.
Don't act like you're in the dark.
But most importantly,
don't act like I put you there.

You won't see this.
And it wouldn't matter if you did.
After all of myself I've shown you,
you still act like you don't see.
So reading this would be pointless...
for you.
For me,
this is the barrier between
the disdain that I feel
and the "*******" that you'll hear.

I want to love you...
woman.
With everything in me.
Enough til it kills me.
I want you to be my prize.
I want it to be you woman
that I meet at the end of this road.
I want,
for you to be the "good" part.
I really want that.

But I can't love you woman.
Not now, not here.
Not yet.
If I tried,
it won't be love.
It'll be scorn.
It'll be resentment.
It'll be the cold and harsh.
It'll be the "*******"s
and "I don't care"s.
And that's one thing I enjoy the most
....caring.

It'll be everything but ***.
I can dedicate my body to yours,
be your high at day's end
with good, strong and close ***.
Give you my mouth and manhood.
Taste you until you feel delicious...
and "this" still,
wouldn't be ***.

That's not my hunt.
We make it ***
when you make it ***....woman.
You're not a little girl.
You wanted me to know that.
So don't act like one.
I know,
It's easy to forget.
You do it all the time.
But you can't forget this...woman.
You didn't give in to me,
you gave in to yourself.
You just chose me as company.

You invited me in
and I filled you with goodness
and my forsaken seed.
So now,
you feel like this story writes itself...
or atleast you hope it does.
But there you go,
playing "little girl" again.
This story didn't write itself,
these are your words on these pages.

So here I am,
stuck in a story,
that you've written for me.
Stuck,
as the pain you feel.
And even though I didn't want a story,
even though we never needed one,
Im the chapter you just can't wait to close.
You did this,
all of it.
And still I Feel Like I Hurt You.

If you are bitter you are like a dry leaf that crumbles with the slightest touch and gets blown away by a whirlwind of hate. Only forgiveness can calm the storm raging inside your heart...


©

When they say love is blind
it is not a euphenism to justify your lover
being aesthetically displeasing.
Most of us dont fall in love with ogre's
who rescue us from barren castles.
What they mean to tell you is that
Prince Charming is who will take away your sight.
Love is synonymous with being blind.

Too caught up in his dreamy eyes
to ever break your gaze.
His lushes hair weaves perfectly in
between your fingers as you tug on it.
You will close your eyes and allow his lips ravish yours.

Closed your eyes shall remain as the bright crimson cloth waves in the wind,
you will mistake the sound for your heart beating faster.

The taste of his lips will linger only for a brief moment on your tongue,
sweet,
don't be fooled by this taste,
ethylene glycol is a sweet poison.

Formalist conceit: striving mad
'Til driven mute, the pattern
wraps you up in a
blanket made of shackles.

See the poet Pagliaccio
Suffer muses' scorning laughter,
Bound and stricken witless, dullard.

Sheathe that poison knife you call a tongue,
Leave the pen your gun in its holster.
Cast your bullet words into the gutter.

The formless form: scatter words and
Enjamb your wits against null space.
The water is the container, no buckets,
No brackets. From disorder, order.

Your betrayal is a knife
Laced with scorn
Anger
And idiocy.
Turn your scaly back
On the Sun
And the Sun will burn you,
I wish at least.
I hope for the burn to lasts ages,
So you feel the dull,
Aching,
Wretched pain of your forked tongue
Spitting venom in my face
And on my back.

Truth denied, Freedom,
spurned Lover's scorn.
Absurdity embraced,
not Despair but Dance.
Music in the Wind,
and Love shall not be denied!

Poetry does not
toot her own horn.

She knows that's what
invites scorn.

It was for honour that
she was born.

Those who have it
she will adorn.