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To the Thief of this here Heart

This poem will never be perfect;
it will only ever be good enough,
about the time I discovered fair beauty,
who captivated me with her ravishing features
before being diminished in the fog of life
the moment she dismissed me.

I asked, not to experience a moment with her,
but to have an entrepreneurial romance
that would span the longevity of time,
for apart from her, initially, I had no intention of ever being.

I wanted to caress her many alluring features,
and taste the finest beauty imaginable
on the palms of my smooth fingers,
as though she were a beverage
any man alive would love to sample.

I treated her with kindness,
for she was deserving of only better treatment,
and my true desires I attempted to keep hidden
from her massive, searching eyes.
In but a moment she cut me down to size,
as though I were a piece of fabric,
and she, a majestic bladed instrument,
that had spent an eternity opening the chests of many men
and relieving them of their centrepieces.

I could have kissed her,
and I wanted to with all my heart,
for never before had my lips touched those belonging to such an amazing being,
but like an angel, she flew away
before the seed of possibility had even begun to grow.

I should have known an unfathomable Goddess of such unequivocal beauty
would have her heart belonging in the safe of another,
and no matter the hours spent attempting to crack
the unbeatable combination on the locking mechanism,
never would I open the muscle
which holds all of her love to bear
and hold it in my possession for but a single moment,
indoctrinating her emotion to become my own,
as I feel it ought to be.

I bowed my head and let her leave
the moment she had said the words that needed expressing to my ears,
for yet again the world smiled kindly on another man
that surely was not me.

To say I dislike the fact I lost the woman I had fallen for,
(like falling from the cloud cover to the world below,
only to find that which had once resided inside
the bounds of my mortal frame collapsed around me on the floor;
a puzzle beyond solvable intent)
is barely an accurate description remotely close to the factual truth.

But I be formal and polite,
and lucky to have a flicker of her generous attention
bestowed upon my features.

With this thought in mind,
a sigh of thanks filtered through my lips and drifted to her ear,
before depart we did,
in a moment that made moving quickly look almost slow in speed,
because I barely knew she were gone from me a second later,
until the punch of loneliness slammed into my chest,
and wrenched my heart out from inside of me
and onto a frozen platter of belittled lover’s hearts.

I saw her again, whilst heartless,
but far from me she was
and follow her forward unto her destination I could not,
and see her again, sadly, I never will.  

You Are My Perfection

I do not settle
for anything
less than
so if I settle
for you, think
only, that you
are the single
most perfect
person I shall
forever know.

Go out with me, or else!

The morale of this poem…never make a writer angry…

One should never anger a writer – one does not know what they might do.
Simply imagine all of the horrid things I could write about you.
I asked you to go out with me – is such an occurrence really so immensely difficult and unfathomably challenging?
All you would have to do is go out with me on one date, and if you still did not like me your number I would never again ring.
But now you have brought this writer pain, and, because of this, I will make sure that you suffer,
until you eventually decide to change your painfully unacceptable answer.
Simply imagine all of the evil words I could rhyme with your entire name;
if I choose to do something so nefarious, your life shall never be the same.
In a text, I could make you hideous, ghastly, annoying, boring, bitchy or even flatulent;
however, if you go out with me, in my next book, I will make you out to be so extravagant!

…you have been warned…