Is it a crimeIf she were the Earth, then he the sun and I am moon.
The light I shine only a pale reflection of a love vanished over the horizon.
Is it a crime her eyes sing silently to his memories.
And I wonder...
How often do you replay his last touch???
How often do you relive his last kiss???
How often is the salty kiss of loves completion not that of passionate perspiration,
but from tears cried as you wish it was he you were lying with one last time???
The answer found in a sigh that whispers, "You're not the man."
Of course this could all be in my head.
Mind full of insecurities, heart who's pride is stronger than its love.
Envious shell who defines himself by another man's ability to live the diamond life,
To drape a woman in pearls.
Yet as I think back on her promise, my heart can't helped but be gripped by fear.
Love-lost PoetsDo it once,
Do it right,
And never have to do it again.
Why don't you love-lost poets understand that???
I mean, how many depressing poems do you need???
You might as well just take the last poem you wrote and insert the
proper names and exclamatory terms as needed.
Otherwise, each consecutive poem gets more long winded than the last,
You recount somebody else's transgressions in the past,
How you thought that what you two had would last,
Then you go on to proceed to continue on expounding over reiterations leading to tangents that digress until ultimately a sentence ends in "Bitch".
And now you feel bad because you don't want to end it that way,
You once loved them and would give the universe just to lay eyes upon them.
Now self-realization steps in.
No, you weren't perfect either.
So now you go on to proceed to continue on expounding over reiterations leading to tangents that digress until ultimately you end up saying "I'm sorry".
Yeh, you just put to paper some of the mos
The ConnectionThe scene, late evening, a poetry night at one of those places where
kindred spirits listen to verse, converse, and versus in checkers or chess.
A young man is there.
A young lady enters.
Suddenly his attention is pulled from the stage...
This feeling of course means that she's here. And although he's only heard her read three times in the past, each piece seemed to know his heart, to call his name, beckon his soul, and long to be recognized.
Yet his tongue lay still, legs immobile.
Even his pen was rendered inactive in the midst of such obvious chemistry that is...
She settles in a few seats behind him.
The flow of the air places them downwind a gentleman selling incense.
Her scent stands out, airy and soft; inviting him to speak, yet bold and lingering; holding him at bay.
For hesitation save a wounded pride but fosters regret for love not tried.
A door opens, air currents reverse.
He rises and writes a whisper on the breeze.
Daring a glance he turns and finds