When the words ‘I love you’
are announced from between those lips
of yours, so vibrant red and gorgeous,
dripping with untamed passion,
I realize all the beauty in the universe
exists only at your feet, and where you stand
is the origin of much gracefulness,
which I long to travel through.
There is little left in me
to fend against the attractive qualities
of your physique and mind,
your personality, wit and charm,
being aspects of your eternal beauty
I long to hold within these arms of mine,
whilst I run my fingers through your hair.
Your voice makes love to mine,
exposing my weaknesses
every moment in which we meet,
my selfish desire to have you all to myself
being revealed so easily,
I cannot help but fault my heart
for falling so unconditionally for you.
I am no liar in love,
as I lie semi-conscious
in the endless field of desire,
bleeding on the bladed petals
of the many roses I longed to secure
for you alone. I am tempted by no other
in the harsh existence of romance,
waiting on your call like a meth addict,
awaiting his next fix.
I secretly cry when experiencing evenings alone,
needing, rather than wanting,
to have your body pressed against my own,
the lack of caution presented to me
in my younger years, scaffolding the courageous lust
I produce daily, like sweat, eagerly anticipating,
with anxiety strained limbs, the moment
I meet your Heavenly gaze once more.
With your bosom, pressed agaisnt my own,
the breath billowing through your lungs
existing similarly to mine, as we lie upon my mattress,
seething after hours of enjoyment.
Your flesh is heartier than any sun,
warming my unwavering conviction on freezing nights,
when icicles threatened to appear upon my person.
I cannot confirm if our relationship
is like the others happening right now,
but I can guarantee, I won’t regret having loved you,
even if you leave, for every memory is a banquet,
that ought to be gorged eternally.
I’m always back by breakfast
after I have dreamed the night away,
serenaded with the thoughts
now fossilized in history,
tarnished by regretful inaction
and the hope I may redo the broken promises
to myself, in order to find
a resolution. The darkness
though, offers little delicacy,
only charcoal residue, which paints the world
with decadency. There is no safety
or security to be had, however,
if it were possible, I would wish to become
hollow or stone, but to be camoflagued
with invisibility would be a substitute
my happiness would willingly accept.
I question the application of such stimulating imagery,
like that which falls upon my eyes
this night, the moment a gram of romanticism
flourishes within my unequaled passion.
Why is there never a chance to see
a beautiful woman more than once,
and why is there no opportunity
to relive the prospects of an adoring fantasy
over several evenings, but nightmares
are only ever too happy to return?
Being alive may be a gift
that nothing can be compared to, but it comes equipped
with the pains of treachery and betrayal,
and never can one request a rebirth
with the acquired knowledge from a former life,
in order to do everything right the first time
over. But dreams can offer friendship,
though even this is fleeting, when the regrets
of life push through the barricades of the mind,
and force themselves to be confronted
by the unconscious spirit.
If only the world found within those sleepy pastures
was equaled in the realm I regretfully return to,
I would never worry about the comfort
my heart does not abide. If I could sleep
forever, I may miss opportunities,
but then, the pain of the outside would never traumatize
these irises, nor the feelings which swell
behind them in the confines of my soul,
and perhaps this alone defines what beauty truly is.
The star that fell a few nights before,
bathed in the cruelest malice, promised
you to me upon its rays of glistening,
temperate light, only to corrupt my senses
with its scandalous deceit, and scold
the marrow of my bones to the epicenter
of a heart, bludgeoned and broken
and worn, and now deceased.
Despite differences in culture, race
and religious ideology, by evening,
we stand beneath the fall of moonlight,
but by day, the sun stretches its warm glaze
upon the tendrils of our flesh,
and when pain crushes and saddens
the emotions buried beneath the surface,
we, all of us, can inevitably break
the same. I stand before this page
without a blessed thought, having broken
like a weather beaten branch, caught
in the updraft of a rain storm cascading
across my external organs, for you,
young lady, are the ache in my chest
when absent from my vision,
and despite the knowledge, gifted to me
in sacrificial blood, tied together
in a bow of hair belonging to the damsel
I shall never hope to groom, I can dream
like anyone else. I can imagine to myself
a night in which you tentatively remove
your articles of clothing, which fall
gently to the surface of the ground
like the peel of an orange, while I stand,
torn between serenading my eyes
with the sight of your blossoming fluidity,
admiring every voluptuous curvature
of your vibrant flesh, or standing watch,
eyes elsewhere, acquiring the stance
of a provisionally lone guardian,
longing, for all that I do now.
I was blessed by the arrow of my compass,
pointing towards a heart due north,
a serenade of a love’s true blossum
kissing me with a touch similar to that of lilacs
shedding their petals onto flesh.
To hold this secluded affair to the rhythm
of my aorta, was to let feelings
become a part of life, but now that dream
is gone from me, tarnished
by great banishment at the hands of fallen hope,
lost to a passionless time.
The apple-seed has withered, and with it,
I cannot settle in the deserted graveyard
awaiting me the moment I return to reality’s fold.
My unquenched wish to reach the unreachable
is obtained within your diamond eyes,
your irises delivering unto me a paradise
of supreme import. I become so immensely more powerful,
and yet, in the moment of such a rushing spasm,
my adrenaline wanes and I am relieved
of all my strength and left a weaker soul.
I realise the man I wish to become,
and all the beauty in the universe
I wish to bestow at your feet,
but this glorious destiny of mine
is always so regrettably far away.
If only I could mount the tight rope
towards my romantic wants,
and acquire my blessed infinite desire,
but sadly, I shall forever succumb to the tragic notion
that I am beneath your supremely gorgeous existence.
A drop of sweat could dangle from the hairs
upon your brow; your hand could brush against mine
as we lay enchanted in bed; you could sigh,
after having my passion injected into you,
and know my words were real; you could taste
the tenderness of the flesh which coats my lips
and drink my love eternal; you could sleep
beside me, and dream of all the happiness
we enjoyed the day before. But never will this happen,
for I failed to take a stand, and you forgot
to alert my heart that yours could have been mine
What are dreams? What is the point
to viewing the screen within my mind?
Is it the truth I see – of the future
or the past, that makes me long to shine?
I hear you say I’m sexy; I’m a spunk;
that you are very interested, is this at all true?
Call it my desperate want to know.
But never do you remain in one location,
and you are impossible to find, and all I want
to say is how I love you; I have since
the moment your image was reflected
in my eyes. If I cannot be with you,
then what is the reason behind my feelings;
behind all of these dreams? If the fates
want something to be known to me,
I say they call all be damned;
why cannot they emphasise the truth
with words? I know I have a time constraint
before the woman I love leaves,
and if the answer is available, please tell me,
(I am a grown man after all) so that I may
pursue the beauty who has captivated
my heart so. If not, then leave me
in silence, for I cannot stand been toyed with
when I feel this way. Grant me happiness
or give me sadness, just do not provide
to me false hope, for the last thing I need
this night is the belief that the woman
I love so dear has but a single romantic
notion of me flickering within her mind.
Tonight, please, may I dream
of the answer that I seek, or may I dream
no more of this forever, to spare myself
the pain. I may deeply love this woman,
but I cannot ever love someone
who feels not anything for me.
They say a picture can tell
a thousand words. If the word
‘love’ could tell a thousand though,
it could never describe you,
for I would need no less
than a million to articulate
your unfathomable beauty.
You make beauty blush with envy,
for never has it met a challenge
it could not compete against.
True beauty however is reduced
to an aging pumpkin the moment
you step out into the light, for you
tear the breath right out
from my lungs just by being
the woman you have become.
I know I love you, just for who
you are, because every action
that transpires by your hand
is as magical as a dream. Every
little thing you do makes you
who you are, and in my eyes
you will never be anything less
than the definition of amazing.
From the way your massive
eyes, like headlights, inquisitively
search your surroundings; the
way every strand of your hair
manages to stay in its exact
location, as though held in place
by the fingers of invisible hand
maidens; the way you on occasion
keep a pen behind your ear
in case you are ever in need of ink.
The way you constantly wear
a beanie or a hooded jumper over
your head, as though your hair
is unworthy of being recognised
by the eyes of strangers; the way
you yawn, by throwing your arms
into the air and opening your mouth
wide, like a lion; the way you
bite your nails, as though your
teeth provide to you, your own
The way you wear jeans rather
than dresses, as though you do
not wish to become the male
stereotype of the modern woman;
the way your voice, deep and
intellectual, demands all in your
vicinity to listen to such a harmonic
beat, whilst your accent remains
untraceable; the way your tattoos
and piercings make you seem as though
you do not care, and yet, I would
bet my bottom dollar that you do.
The way your writing is amazingly
flawless and never loses a beat;
the way your opinions are so well
worded and your intelligence so
unimaginable, and yet you so
rarely speak; the way you seem
so popular, and yet at other times
look so incredibly alone.
But most of all, I love the way
you are so unique in everything
that makes you who you are
today, from your beauty to your
posture; you are a walking, talking
paradox, and I will never have enough
of you; nor shall I tire from looking
in your direction because you excel
at being exceptional, and yet,
never will I have the honor
of spending a night with you.
It is no surprise that you have
a paramour you can call your own,
for if I have been captured by
your flawless beauty, it seems only
reasonable that another man would
have been ensnared by your
alluring features. With this written
upon the page, where an envious
tear has fallen, I realise I am not
the man you love today, but,
if I be lucky, perhaps I will be
the man of your dreams tomorrow.
A man can dream, can be not,
and I do not wish to have this
fantasy, no matter how ludicrous
it may seem, removed from my
mind, for it is hope that keeps
me going, and in you I have
found all of the hope that I
shall ever need to live life
the way it ought to be experienced.
Love is never nearly enough,
is it ma’am? Is this unfortunate
truth the reality of romance,
or the failed logic of an infatuated lover
who’s passionately connected
to an unknowing victim
of his hearts’ endless affections.
We move in separate circles,
neither of which are fated to meet.
We are destined to always be apart,
and I am not content with that conclusion.
But without the exchange of dialogue,
how are you supposed to know my feelings?
You cannot read my mind,
but, would you ever really want to?
My mind is like a maze and can cause
even the greatest adventurer to become lost.
I would not venture inside if I were you,
unless you wish to be exposed to my feelings.
These feelings I long to express verbally,
but would you honestly give your time
to a man like me?
Ma’am, would you care to listen
to my heart if it spoke to you?
You are never alone.
Friends surround you around every turn.
I cannot approach you,
for my words would cause
great embarrassment, and your reputation
I would hate to hurt.
If only I could shoot you a message,
from my lips to yours;
a gentle kiss, purer than true love,
blown soundlessly across the room
to where you sit.
Maybe then you would know I am real,
for although we’ve never shared a conversation,
(barely a word has passed between us),
I wish to share with you a kiss
so passionate, that you remember me forever.
In reality however,
you will never know my name,
my identity, my number,
and although I’ve watched you so lovingly
since July and the wind of a warm Spring
is fast approaching,
you have never noticed
how much I truly love you.
You don’t know of my existence.
This here will be the fifth week
I have seen you,
and yet you have never seen me.
I have looked right into your eyes
and when you looked in my direction,
all you bore witness to was an everlasting emptiness,
and to you, that is all I shall ever be.
I barely know you ma’am,
and for reasons I am yet to uncover,
my heart has become hopelessly devoted
to you, and you alone.
Please, if you could,
relieve me of my torment
and say how you could never love me;
how I am beneath you;
a wretched worm undeserving of your affection,
who you would sooner squash
between your thumb and forefinger
rather than ever look upon.
Please, ma’am, I beg of you; do not love me.
I fell for you so easily
and I could not survive a fall again.
Ever since I looked into your eyes;
your sad yet beautifully
dazzling eyes, I have become
singularly devoted to you.
But if you were to feel as I do,
if your love was to become
as uncontrollable as my own,
the repercussions would be extraordinary,
for I would never let you go;
even if the world was ending,
I would hold onto you forever.
In this verse you are mine,
and I am always times infinity yours,
and yet, in reality,
such could never come to fruition
for we are not destined to meet.
And even though there was
never a greater love poem
than the one about this particular young lady
and her love struck poet,
in reality, never was there a sadder story
than the truth of this famed fiction.
So, although you can never love me,
please, at least remember me
as the man who loved you;
as the man who always will.
I am yours entirely ma’am,
in this world and the next.
Sincerely, your unflinching admirer.
Hey guys! This particular poem is one for a university class of mine. Thought I might run it by you guys first before giving it over to my class mates and tutor to look over. I am using a bit of an experiential design here. The piece is meant to be reminiscent of place and space, ‘space’ in this aspect being my opinion of a place, or, in the case of the poem, a person. Please feel free to comment if you believe that there is something wrong with either the consistency or any other aspect!
I appreciate you taking the time to read.
Also, there are a couple of sexual references and some profanity in the piece. Thought I should mention that in case I receive some very young viewers! 😀
Waiting I was for twenty six years to find her,
and wonder I do when I think
together four years was not enough.
Is it greed that floods my sensors,
or is it more of something different
that is yet to be mentioned here?
General Gnaeus Domitius Corbulo
proclaimed that he be worthy
when fell upon his sword he did.
An answer I am yet to find
when question I do my worthiness
to hold onto the memory
of the woman I called my home,
for every day her voice I hear
on moments when soundlessness be not abandoned.
‘When we lay our heads down upon plush pillows,
our hearts begin to beat slower.
We succumb to the tiring sensation
that runs throughout our systems,
and as we close our eyes and let sleep take us,
promise me, my darling,
in the quiet of your fantasies,
you will have hallucinations
of my undying embrace.
This imprisonment is necessary,
for in our dreams we shall meet,
as we sleep under the cover of darkness
that has drowned out the day,
the dead of night rapping at our windows
as we soundlessly dream.
Although we are separated
by the immense oceans of time
that stretch out across the universe,
the nexus between us is most strongest
when our consciousness has been denied.
In this world we are bound not
by the limitations of the living,
who be impaired by lack of vision.
During our dream state we can see ourselves
for who we truly are in the land of the ancient spirits.
Lead you I will, through your sleep
until the two of us are together,
right where we eternally belong.
When around you I’m not,
let love be your guide.
I am in the weather that surrounds you;
my feelings are the winds
drifting across your features;
my thoughts are in the rain that hangs in the air,
and by the end you shall be mine,
as destined you are to be.
Every time you close your eyes it’s me you glimmer
because, in your memories I am alive,
for love like ours lasts more than forever,
it is time itself, and when meet again we do tonight
in your unconscious mind,
you have my permission to run your sweet
fingers through every strand of my hair.
Kiss me with your lips
that be stained with eternal love,
from which I have digested greatly
the affection of my paramour,
and happily drink your love I will,
just as you have drunk mine.
Eat your fill of my feelings
prepared on this platter,
for like numbers, my passion is never ending,
and just when you cannot stomach no more
I will kiss you awake
and tomorrow we can begin anew.’
Spoken are these words few
across the veil of serene passing,
and listen do I to the garrulous tongue
of my beloved as her whisper hangs on the wind,
for love that be true can be halted not
by even the dispersions of sacrilege.
Bound is fidelity’s chalice of mine
that points towards true north,
and when cometh my end does
meet her, my lady, shall I
in the city of angels that floats on the wings
of faith, truth and love.
A time there was once though
when different her emotions were,
and it was I who sacrificed his affection
in order to ensnare the complete attention
of the future residence my heart
longed to live within.
No problem have I ever with saying ‘I love you’
when such words are meant, although I believe
she did once resent such terminology.
Beneath her bench she did keep a voodoo doll
in the shape of any man who charmed her heart,
and stab the thing repeatedly she would
with a needle of solid silver
until a man fell out of fixation with her.
This attitude of hers was an unnecessary one;
a burden upon my soul that seldom feels rejection.
Resent these tactics I did,
knowing how not I would be felled
by such malicious crimes against my romance,
and as I whispered into her ‘all will be alright’,
her bated breath was then released
and she did simply breathe again
in unison with the beating of my palpitating heart.
So if I dream of thee this night,
waketh me not from slumber,
for the elements of but brick and timber
represent not the corporeal visage
of my heart’s desire,
and my one affliction.
My mortal coils bound
by the elixir of her good fortune
offers a defensive reprieve
from the bed of loneliness,
wishing not to sleep beneath the duvet
of such misfortune.
But sometimes this be not enough,
and the phone I ring to have a conversation
with the unforgotten dead.
The ghost of my one true love
is recorded on a loop,
that shall proceed to play for an infinitude,
for the immortal carrier of her voice time is.
I listen with an empowered intent,
to hear my heart’s home say the last goodbye
we were eternally denied.
Shall not shed a tear I will,
but joy instead will be that which erupts
across my features,
for the unwritten tale of our affection
is a story worth consideration
in the halls of unequalled passion.
Not is my permanent place of residence
my home. Protection it does indeed provide,
like a barrier between worlds,
but love and warmth is given not
by the walls of this establishment.
My homesickness felt is not for this construction,
but the home that hath occupy
this residence once with me.
The home that which contains
my palpitating muscle
of passionate throes
alas is a stationary object not,
but a ravishing creature
who hath captured me
with an unending ease.
Inanimate is not my home,
her roof that which shelters me
being not a mass of tiles
but hair, each strand belonging
in its own place upon
the herbal scented features
of her head, burning
like an out of control grass fire
that rampages across the land.
Cement and brick her flesh is not,
but gentle to the touch
of my fine fingers as I caress
a form of physical magnificence
quite like no other,
my home having taken legitimately
the crown of purest gorgeousness
from the head of Aphrodite,
being bestowed this grateful honour
on the orders of a winged angel,
the Goddess of love and beauty
having for the first time
to stand in the shadows
of my beloved’s figure.
Like a painting hung upon the wall,
her body be the canvas
of such fruitful expenditure.
A rose that be as dark as night
is etched upon her shoulder left,
whilst a sentence strung from words writ
beneath the surface of her flesh
is accumulated on the opposing side;
Je n’ai l’amour de soi et j’adore ca.
A symbol of nefarious intent
in the form of a religious cross
that be hung inappropriately,
drawn in the darkest colour imaginable
that be thick like it is filthy
is painted ever so delicately
across the sumptuous design of her back.
The opposite to this artwork
is, ironically, on the other side,
a slender angel in an ink of blue
hangs like a chandelier
between the ample peaks of her chest,
the wings of this here blessed creature
resting upon thy lady’s bosom’s mantel.
An artist, who must have perspired dangerously
during the birth of the snake
that worms its way around my lady’s lower regions
would have begun the piece of work
where the tail lies beneath the button
in her body’s centre.
Its form slithers towards that which
shall not be mentioned yet,
the tongue of this venomous reptile
resting but an inch above Venus’s mound.
A fire breathing serpent,
quite unlike the creature writ
in the stanza prior,
rests its inflamed features
upon the leg of the woman I call home,
a ring of fire burning
around the body of this wretched beast.
Felt not is pain by a house that is built,
but when born, a different story this is,
however, never ought a tale such as this
be written upon the page again.
A tear, crystalline in appearance
will roll across the flawless features
of the woman I have here regaled,
when consumed with bereavement
her gorgeous soul unfortunately suffers
once the deliverance of offensive villainy
unto her life of beauty is betided.
But she be strong in contrast
with what may be believed,
and if flirt too much did a man
unworthy of her consideration,
apply she would mascara to his angry eyes
and to his chapped lips would be gloss
as she proclaimed with a smile
‘now you be my little bitch!’
If, like a volcano, a commotion did erupt,
and enter did I the room where explode the violence had,
only to find one such person beaten up upon the floor,
‘what the fuck have happen here?’
would be the words bestowed from me,
before being told, simplistically;
‘like this it did happen –
started it he did, and it be I who ended it.’
The lights that illuminate
dark passages on a cold winter’s night
are her cayenne flavoured eyes, shining brighter
than the stars orbiting our atmosphere
that need not switching on,
for always do they exceed
all else that radiates this world
in glowing fixtures.
The chimney is connected not
atop her frame, but to her mouth,
the slender stick of smouldering ash
permeating the world around her
with its obnoxious fumes.
The repugnant flavour of the smoke,
once cycled through her lungs,
has become a scent so sweet,
one could not imagine it was ever so brutal to behold.
Like oxygen is this fragranced cloud
to her, the scented smoke
bringing a smile to those lips that be reminiscent
of the flames she bathes in.
Her cigarette could spontaneously erupt
and paint the effigy of a blazing inferno
that spans her entire body,
and she would shrug and say with bated breath,
‘had to happen sometime.’
Unlike a house belonging
to the land, rooted in place
and grown from the imagination
of workmen’s fingers,
like the seedling of a growing flower,
who speakth only with the
creaking of wood
hanging above me in the ceiling,
its choice in words
reaching my ears on nights
when the wind blows thickest,
different is the speech postulated
from the lips of my humble home.
Opinionated is she,
with an intellect that defies
all known comprehension,
the sounds that roll off her tongue
being not sounds at all,
but words, that need not deciphering
as I listen with an avid ear
to the harmonic gestures
of a musical score
that ought never to be unheard.
The words that fall from thy mouth
match those which be produced
by the lady from my dreams incarnate,
whose words, spoken in an accent untraceable
are concocted by rosy lips of a pink hue
which long, like a flower in the meadow
to be plucked, oh so courteously.
‘You’re the air I breathe,
you’re the sword I seethe,
you’re everything I know.
You’re the destination I will go
to hold onto you my king.’
‘You’re my diamond ring,
you’re my lighthouse in the harbour.
You are the future mother
of my children, my loving queen,
the only one who makes me feel like a human being.’
Although not is meaning lost to thy words spoken,
come a time does on occasion
when what be said fails to clarify
the feelings found within,
and it is on rare occasion such as this
that the touch of flesh against flesh
will say more than what could ever be spoken aloud.
An entryway there be not of conventional design
to touch the soul within her castle’s keep,
for there be no moat to cross
and there be no palace guard.
But permission is ever only granted
to those deserving of her patronage,
the fire that burns within touched only
by the hands of those with just merit
who hath captivated her unruly passion.
Ease not my way through the front door
for there be no knob to turn,
but a buckle that needs undoing
to reveal a pathway to a dungeon
of incomprehensible delights,
the likes of which I cannot help
but lust to plunder.
Upon the first time of this moment transpiring
I remember what sprang to mind, the thoughts,
and I said to myself with gusto great;
‘I shall not shield my eyes,
for the morbid curiosity of mine
is a boundless ocean,
that longs to explore the farthest reaches
of my destined home,
with regions contained across all surfaces
yet to be named by man,
and if I may be so bold
to ask the owner of this here promise land
a question, with regards to whether
I can be the explorer to put a name
to these areas of lustrous pleasure
and great beauty, when exploring
not just her lower most features,
but the mountain ranges of her torso.’
Now, that it be time for a conclusion
to be writ upon the page,
it can be said with a heart, heavy with burden,
that ‘death is when the darkness takes you,
belittled by the black of night.
I don’t want to feel this first before I die,
I want to feel you instead,
for you are oh so hot like a burning bush,
the embers of your effigy
captivating me with a raw ecstasy of emotion
unlike any that I have inhaled before,
and known it should throughout the land
that separate we shall not,
for, unequivocally, there be no death in love.’