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
Normally I publish only poetry on this blog. In my spare time though (when I am not online, enjoying life, or being drowned under the weight of work), I am attempting to become a published author. With the amount of trouble I am having in becoming published, I always felt it would be nice to find a blog, a post, or anything really, that could help outline what the publishing industry in Australia is like today. Since I am unable to find one, I thought I would simply articulate my opinions garnered from personal experience.
One thing that I constantly find amazing is the information which is provided, and the realisation I have had which reveals how one hand apparently has no idea what the other is doing. I know, cliche expression, but nothing could be more true. University lecturers and tutors I often find are quick to articulate how these past couple of years and the few that are yet to come are the best times to enter the publishing and writing industry, whereas publishers and literary agents reveal quite the opposite.
Back in 2005 when I completed my first short story collection, I began to look for publishers. At the time of the anthology’s orchestration, publishers were apparently happy to accept such a literary style, and when I had finished the text, suddenly many of the publishers who were willing to accept short stories had dried up, and this has only consistently become worse. At the beginning of 2013 I was alerted by a literary agent how apparently the short fiction industry in Australia was completely dead. Most publishers are unwilling to accept such work, and according to professors involved in the writing field at Melbourne University, the interest in short stories has seen a rapid decline over the years in exchange for young adult fiction.
Predominantly, I have been told how the best way to become published is to write either young adult fiction (which I cannot because I consistently get the voice wrong) or fantasy (which has never truly acquired my attention from a writing point of view). What’s more, if a writer creates a series, this is expected to be even more attractive, for the potential success of one book (which has been proven over the past few years with fantasy series’ being all the rage) will inevitably mean that any sequels will rake in just as much popularity.
Moving on, the novel that I have been trying to publish is a science fiction piece, which I have since edited and am in the process of cutting into three separate texts. In 2010, Ewan Mitchell, a known Australian writer in the publishing scene expressed to me when I told him about my project how science fiction was a great genre to write about because it was not constrained and could be internationally understood. A book about the Australian outback for instance may not acquire international acclaim, but Mitchell stressed that science fiction was at the opposite end of the spectrum.
At the start of 2013 I was told by literary agents how fantasy was a dominant genre and science fiction had generally begun to decline, and in December last year I received the same news, only amplified, being told how science fiction was ‘depressed’. As far as I can tell, only five literary agents are willing to accept science fiction oriented work (Australian Literary Management, Cameron’s Management, Curtis Brown, Golvan Arts (although they stress they are very busy) and Jenny Darling and Associates), with two of the other agencies that once accepted such a genre having gone out of business. It’s almost ironic, and clearly was meant to be – I’m depressed and the genre I write about feels the same way.
If that’s not enough, publishers and literary agents have done nothing over the past two years to make me feel any better about becoming successful as a writer. Almost every agent and publisher I contact with regards to whether they are accepting the kind of pieces I write, stress how this is the worst time to become an aspiring writer. So bad in fact that in December of last year, a literary agent (I do believe it was Australian Literary Management) told me to consider another career. Good thing I’m been kept busy by four part time jobs else I would be in trouble.
Sadly though, every time my aspirations are shot down, my opinion on the chances that I have to enter such an industry begin to slowly fade, and after so much trouble I begin to wonder whether I should even bother continuing. True, I have wanted to be an author since I was 5, but I don’t think it is ever too late to run, in the words of an old limerick, over the hills and far away. After so much effort though, do I really wish for my dreams to come crashing down around me without putting up a fight?
True, I could consider the self-publishing scene, but that additionally has its issues. Zeinab Alayan, self published author of Puppet Parade, once said last year that becoming self published was a good thing to put on her resume so publishers could perhaps take this fact under advisement next time she went looking for a potential publisher. However, Australian Literary Management have a clause in their submission guidelines, stating how they will not accept the work of people who have been previously self published. Ouch!
Furthermore, rarely do publishers or literary agents appear willing to help aspiring authors. Many literary agents stress how they are no longer accepting pieces from anyone, and those that are, say the chance of them representing new authors is slim because they are focusing on assisting the authors they are at present signed with. Most publishers furthermore, from Pan to Hodder Headline are unwilling to accept unsolicited work – in layman’s terms, unless work is submitted to them from a literary agent, they do not want to read it. This is made harder by the point that I stressed earlier how literary agents accepting work are rarer than Sasquatch.
Now, Text Publishing is one of the only Australian publishers who accept unsolicited work, and Allen and Unwin have what they call the Friday Pitch. For the past few years, every Friday a writer is able to send a synopsis, the first chapter of their novel, and a cover sheet which the publisher supplies, and Allen and Unwin will assess the work over the course of a fortnight. Other publishers are unwilling to take chances on new writers, and what really makes me growl in utter frustration is how the rules handed down by publishers do not apply to writers who are already successfully published.
As previously mentioned, since 2004 the short story industry has been descending into inevitable extinction, and yet during this period, Paul Jennings, Andrew Daddo and Andy Griffiths, authors who consistently write short stories, have had their anthologies published, even when their publishing houses (Penguin, Hodder and Pan) have stated in their submission guidelines for over the past few years how they do not accept short stories.
Moving on, poetry is just as defunct as many other literary arts according to publishers, although on occasion I wonder if this is at all accurate. Not one of the major poetry houses are accepting such pieces any longer, with Wendy Flemming, former president of the Melbourne Poets Union stating to me in 2012 how poetry is an art form from the 70s, and is no longer in vogue as it was then. Professor John Brophy of Melbourne University additionally stated in late 2013 that when he was a young poet he was not exactly very well compensated economically, which makes me wonder for how long such an art form has been losing popularity.
In fact, in mid 2013 one of Australia’s leading poetry publishing houses, Brandl and Schlesinger, explained how they were no longer accepting submissions because of a sizable backlog. Due to this, aspiring poets can only hope to have their work published in anthologies (almost every university have their own, which is also on occasion open to the general public), or in smaller publishing houses like the Suburban Review and Five Islands Press. However, Five Islands only ever accepts work in November, and only picks a couple of the vast quantity of submissions they receive. Having attended one of their meetings, I have seen the number of submissions they are sent, and all I can say is this; I am glad I don’t work for them. Hence the reason why I wonder if poetry truly is as defunct as some publishers may lead one to believe.
On that note, does anyone else in Australia have an opinion on the publishing and writing industry? Internationally, do readers elsewhere have an opinion on the writing and publishing sectors in their countries? Do readers agree that today is perhaps the worst time to consider becoming a professional author, or am I speaking utter nonsense? I would very much like to hear (or in this case read) your thoughts!
Thank you for reading.
Below is a poem I wrote with fellow blogger PM (http://prinsesamusang.wordpress.com/), whose blog is something people should definitely consider checking out. What happened here, is that I wrote a line, and then PM wrote one, and we continued this procedure until the very end.
Anyway, onto the poem…
Unknowing is the hour writ of our chance encounter,
under a liquid copper sky, two worlds collide, a beginning or an end?
A collaboration of frozen feelings struck within galaxy’s pull,
between accident and destiny; an inevitable fortune.
Unable to comprehend the calluses of avid interlopers,
trying to play God but we joust for our rights
upon the steeds of battles lost but never unforgotten.
Here we stand, not the least broken; together lost, but we found each other.
In these arms smell the scent of fidelity everlasting;
a hidden chill stirring, at once anesthetising and stimulating
through the marrow of the bones sheltering thy palpitating heart
in the crux of a decision that aligns with the stars.
Like an emerald shrouded by the dark of night I cannot help but stare,
my devotion a violent consuming passion without evanescence,
waning only after I have left this Earth, but not before I speak
the crystalline truth, immensely I fear to bring closer to light,
for you could dethrone this heart of mine from my chest’s mantel.
Is there a way to bury this fire unforeseen our collision birthed?
And if not, cometh what will the combined essence of our untamed hearts?
Try and fail, or fail to try, a decision we must comply
before the day is done, but what avenue is safest when rare they ever are?
Hands laced we take the leap, spirits merged, we jump to ends unknown
and glide across a rainbow towards what I hope will be our pot of solid gold.
Future uncertain, but the only answer is ‘yes’
when look into each other’s eyes we do. So what is it that we be waiting for?
The founding of Atlantis; the rebirth of the sun;
Icarus taking flight or a Montague dying for true love?
No matter where this goes, the die has been cast,
and now it be time to move myself across the board.
It’s you and me we finally decide,
before I passionately sweep you into my arms and thrust you against the wall.
I drown in your smile that confirms this inception.
I have waited an eternity for this perfect moment; I have moved bridges and mountains and seas,
all worth having you to call my own
from this moment forth until my last,
and when come that day does, I will die with a smile,
for I spent my life with you, and nothing could make me happier
than to say the words I have said every day since we first met; I love you.
Death be cold, death be quick, death be
instantaneous. Life is lost and loss is
life and I, the fair damsel, future
princess of this rich loved land am left
motherless. Loneliness becomes me, as
father finds love again in the arms of
another. Those arms that first felt warm
are as cold as the icy wind they came in
on. Barren damnation lurks within the
cold eyes of the future queen, who dares
to rule in a stead that never did belong to
her. I think vile thoughts about this vile
beast who steals the heart of my father
with the sharpened tip of her sword, an
action of such brutal brutality that only
Lucifer himself could applaud. I escape
the clutches of this sadist, I am lost in a
strange land. Exotic; alien; unknowable;
I am frightened and alone. This is not my
warm bed; this is not my humble abode;
this is no longer my fairytale never more.
My heart be but broken and the queen
wishes to break it more. My beauty; my
intellect; my passion; it rivals all that she
is evil; her rooted sin unable to take hold
in the Garden of Eden that is mine. She
consults her mirror; her cold mirror of
fallen souls, which dictates to her the
actions that must be taken, to ensure that
I be forsaken. A hunter, lone and cunning,
is called upon to serve. On bended knee he
pleads before her, to be released of the
burden that she commands. But she be but
so wicked in her words that she threatens
him to his core, and not even a warm heart
like mine could dare live against her malice
cruelty. He comes through the forest; I hear
him wandering like a giant, cutting through
the trees. The foliage falls beneath his feet as
he comes to grab my life from me. But my
fair beauty is beyond reason and it captures
him without a doubt. He stumbles upon his
axe, unable to sustain his feelings as he
gazes upon the ravishing impressions that I
was given at birth. Like a seductress, I
have him round my finger, my rosy lips
he longs to pluck; but that is not want I
want from him, for he will help me make
the fate of this world unstuck. He returns
to the hag that hatched his orders and says
that I be dead and with these words the
queen drops her guard; for I be but very
much alive. The lies he tells in my
defence however are soon revealed as the
slanderous masquerade that they are by
the terrible mirror, that shan’t remain
blinded for long. Ravaged by her hatred
to see me struck down dead, the furious
queen, betrayed by her own instruments,
devises a plan of sweet ecstasy. The bitter
dread of her frozen foul heart is poured
into an apple seed, that upon taking root
within the soil births a delicious death. As
I unknowingly take into me the crisp flesh
of the forbidden fruit, the moistness of its
texture hides its killer plan. Like the steel of
her sword, I am crushed beneath this legacy
stolen from me by a woman who sits upon
a throne of deceit; this perilous pile of blood
and gore that the wretched witch has
institutionalised to see me fall from grace.
Like the tree the evil was birthed from, I
am fallen and I ought never to return, for
I know all too well that death is death and
there be no cure to stifle this tragedy. Like
falling into a dream, one of utmost pitch,
I notice nothing of my old existence with
the strength to awaken me. Death may
have stolen my reflection, but the queen
has revealed, unbeknownst to her it would
seem, her Achilles heel. What hubris on her
part to believe that fruit could dare deflower
the petals of my perfect person and like a
bird free from its cage I unexplainably rise
again. My rebirth may be but something I
ought to ponder, however, I’ve a country
that needs my spirit and my aggressive
vengeance is the power this land needs
to be revived. The queen may have her
harlot parlour tricks and her seethed
sword, but in contrast the land has me
and I am all she shall ever need to blossom.
I march with all my fury and charge into the
grounds I once called my own and humbly
take the head of heresy that dared to rule
in stead. Her mirror is but broken with the
touch of my hand, for purity is the strongest
device against wickedness and the last thing
the bastard mirror felt was the unconditional
love of this virgin’s still beating heart. As for
the malice queen, well, we shall not speak
of her again, for upon setting her rancid flesh
upon me, I triumphantly cut her down to size.
Her death signals the end of tyranny and it is
now that my reign shall begin; all shall fall
before my love and never be but broken again.
The moral of this story? That in itself is hard
to tell, but I am certain you know of the
resolved conflict and the conclusion because
you too have fallen under my spell. My
passion shall embrace you and none in
my blood line shall escape such birthright
and from now until time no longer ticks,
everyone will know the story of I, Snow White.
SYNOPSIS: The title of the piece no doubt gives the story of this poem away.
Now, I would like to firstly state that this poem contains many sexual references and some coarse language. On top of this, people of a Persian or like background may find this poem culturally derogatory, and I apologise for that. I realise that people of such backgrounds are quite subtle in their relationships and stereotypically do not believe in such vivid sexual ideologies, not until marriage at least and I would like to say that I do not deliberately go out of my way to attack people of such a background. On another note, I do not mean to insult Prostitutes either. I’m not sure if I actually do so, but many of the themes brought up involve such a line of work and some people who either are, were or are not a part of this career may find it derogatory. Adjunctively, I do not mean to seem misogynistic, and I apologise again if my writing in any way seems to be so.
Basically, if you are easily distraught by anything to do with the themes mentioned I would not read this. But if you do, I hope you enjoy it.
I’m in a bar; I’m alone, and it’s just another cold summer’s night,
just having a drink and a laugh, work was a war; it was a fight.
Suddenly, I look across the room and see you seated there,
whilst I wish to run my hand through your ravishing dark brown hair.
You have a terrifically crafted face, and magnificent matching eyes;
just admiring your body I know, you’ll be a sexual paradise.
My attention is then drawn towards your sexually alluring clothes,
the same kind of attire worn by sexual deviants and ho’s.
With that in mind, I can’t believe I’ve fallen for a woman quite like you.
I’ve a family; a wife, but you’re the only woman I want to do.
You smile that smile, despite the job you do;
cuz you love it when men say ‘I love you.’
It may not be real, and they may actually mean ‘thank you’, but you like it all the same.
It is the only time you ever hear such words, cuz no man has ever learnt your name.
But I want more from you than you should ever expect,
because in my eyes you are absolutely perfect,
and I know this may sound crazy, cuz no man has ever seen past your career.
Being unable to ever see you again, is the only thing that I fear.
And even though you cannot read between the lines to realise what is true,
please my darling, believe me when I say, I will be there to always love you.
I walk up to you and ask ‘young lady, do you wanna fuck?’
Please, could you say ‘yes’, cuz ‘I’m good, I’m good; I’m good for a buck.
I want to feel you on top of me; I want to feel you on top of me right now,
I’ve got to be with you tonight, and I honestly don’t give a shit as to how.
I know you have a busy schedule but if you could just give me an hour,
you would not regret this decision my dear; my lover; my gorgeous flower.’
And you reply ‘boy, if you cannot do it in a minute,
then you should just walk away right now and simply forget it.
I need to feel the speed, I need to feel the love –
I need to feel as though I’m in Heaven above.’
My temperature was beginning to heighten; it was beginning to soar,
other men had taken notice and asked ‘what? You mean you want this filthy whore?’,
and to them I reply; ‘I want to go where so many men have boldly gone before,
I do not care about any of your past lovers, cuz I will love you so much more.’
To me you are more than just a woman, more than just another working girl;
to me you are the single most beautiful prostitute in all of the world.
You were as black as the night, yes, that’s right girls and boys, like the night she was black,
the white women in my life don’t do it for me, I just gotta get her back!
Perhaps in this life of mine I’ve always wanted a Persian Prostitute like you.
You happen to be the only one of whom I know, and you will gladly make do.
Other men come up to you, and they ask ‘please, fuck me baby; you whore; you bitch’,
then I turn and ask you; ‘please, come with me and scratch my twenty nine year old itch.’
You raise an eyebrow at this comment, and are unsure of what to say,
believe me baby when I tell you, ‘whatever you want, I will pay.’
You reach down and grab hold of my dick, as I begin to sigh,
then you pull back and remove your hand as I cry ‘why, oh why?’
You cry ‘get that volcano that’s ‘bout ready to erupt away from my hole,
you ain’t gettin’ that thing near my body, no, you ain’t gettin’ it near my soul.
I want a whirlwind romance that can forever truly endanger my health;
you can’t provide, so I guess you’re just gonna have to go erupt by yourself.’
I whinge; I complain; I flail my limbs above my head in the hopes that you will see;
that you are the only woman in the whole universe who can titillate me.
‘I want to make love to you down by the pier, so please, let’s drive down to the docks
where I can ease my way inside you, and your vagina can massage my cock.
I want to hear you howl and scream tonight as I make love to you,
and as I do so, I’ll confess my feelings – and I’ll mean them too.
I moreover dream; and I long, of taking you into my bed,
where I can fulfil the fantasises that reside inside my head.’
You look towards the other horny men and you realise they are all so bad.
I am so happy when you choose to spend the night with me instead; I’m just so glad.
End Note: I would like to say that I have never actually being with a Prostitute. I don’t know what that does for my image after writing such a piece, but I wanted to make that clear in case I seemed at all ignorant in my depictions. Thank you for reading.
For anyone who has read my former poem ‘Untitled Beauty’, one would know that I based the piece upon a beautiful young woman who dressed up as Jedi Master Aayla Secura from the Star Wars universe for a ComicCon. I do not know her true identity, and I would really appreciate it if someone in the world could actually tell me such information…the link to the image and additional info on this topic can be found in the ‘end notes’ section of the original Untitled Beauty post which can be found at this link: http://wp.me/p24LWs-2H
This here is not a love poem – no, it is a poem of longing,
about hope, prayer, fantasy, discovering oneself and belonging,
which begins as every morning inevitably does. The light breaks through a moderate sized hole in the wall; the ominous ‘they’ call it a window,
but I call it a distraction, for it wakes me from my slumber where I dream I strike up a conversation with a rare beauty by saying ‘hello’,
rare beauty who is you. All the money in the world cannot buy me another minute in this fabulous fantasy,
where I kissed your sumptuously luscious and tender lips and you held onto my big, broad shoulders oh so delicately,
and I fear, the only way to experience this moment once again, is to physically find you and express
‘you are the only lover Untitled Beauty I have been frequently and hopelessly attempting to impress,
for you are the only young woman in all the world, if not the known universe I am constantly thinking of,
my sumptuously delightful lady of whom I hope to forever and always unconditionally love.
It is true, and it is a fact that I do not dare deny, that never have either of us yet met,
but even with that said, you are a young beauty I can never easily in all my years forget,
and if I am supposed to move on from this fantasy, where am I supposed to move on to?
for no one else in this great round world could ever tame this heart of mine for no one else is you.
Additionally, if I am supposed to move on, where am I supposed to go?
for you are the single greatest adventure of all time that I will ever know.
It is also true that I do not know your name, but, my darling, it is a two way street. You could ask ‘what name do you go by?’ and I’d reply ‘you may call me Naughty Nefarious’
and a giggle may suddenly spring forth from the corner of your mouth. I swear it is no joke, for a name is a name, and mine is mine, for my world becomes so much more delicious
the second I lay my eyes upon your pretty face. I feel so invulnerable, but the truth of it all is, I really ain’t all that tough,
and I fear that those three words that mean so much, but also so little, for they are said too often, in regards to you, I have not said enough.
Ma’am, I am certain you grew up in America, where as I’m from down under, from a state far adjacent to that of Perth,
and it would most definitely seem from our noble beginnings when we were born, God wanted to give us both quite the wide berth.
I dedicated my life to writing and gaining a doctorate, whilst you dedicated yours to staying at home,
loyally watching over your loving family with respect, like an unflinching, always trustworthy garden gnome.
In your spare time you use your remarkably athletic form and go dancing in the grim shadows,
whilst back in Australia, not everything is the stereotypical gullies and meadows.
However, what the two of us have in common are the numerous stars that we watch at night, and the clouds all black and blue;
that unusually warm touch you feel right now upon your shoulders young lady – that’s me, romantically thinking about you,
for I frequently hunger for your passionate affection, and I swear I’ll starve without you near,
and I wish we weren’t separated by oceans and continents, I wish you were with me right here.
I often wonder what is happening with the world, and where the old one I once knew and loved inevitably went,
and why all of the once potent emotion is being poured into pain and horror, and if it is emotion well spent.
What happened to the age old conception ‘treat others the way you want to be treated’?
for in this world, truth justice and mercy are sacrificed, and true love is defeated.
I hope this inevitability ain’t my fate, and if so, I ask you, give me another toss at the game of luck, give me a second chance,
for although I ain’t no proud patriot who can fight through thick and thicker, I am a strong believer in emotion, reminiscence and romance,
and I can assure you, I would bleed on the Union Jack to make sure the faithful stripes stay bright red.
No matter whether I’m alive or in my time of dying, I feel there’s nothing more to be said,
but I would ask that you do not become overburdened with sad and depressing emotions and burst into tears for me, and that you happily smile in remembrance instead,
and if the world was plunged into war tomorrow, I would participate if it meant I could keep dreaming about you inside my head.
When imagining a fantasy world in which we know one another I can picture a location of common place where you’re listening to Metallica
over the radio, their awesome rock n’ roll classics ripping through the speakers as you loyally jam to their tunes, before introducing yourself as ‘Aayla.’
It must be an expensive persona you are living as we attempt to guess your origins. ‘No’ you say, ‘I ain’t from Launceston, and I ain’t from Maribyrnong.
No, I am from nowhere near here. Instead, I come from a different place entirely with traditional working man roots, where Bruce Springsteen’s ‘Wrecking Ball’ is the theme song;
where the widely renown Star Wars theme is sung every night before dinner;
where the biggest loser can almost always become the biggest winner.
That’s right ladies and gents, I come from the mighty United States, and I will certainly return there soon,
so if you’ve something to tell me I suggest you confess it real quick, and by that, I mean this afternoon,
cuz come tomorrow I’ll be long gone, and young man, you especially, will be left on your own,
and being a pure blooded California gal and a pseudo Australian I can tell you twice, it’s awful cold when you are all alone.’
I have this uncanny feeling inside my heart and soul, one where I believe legitimately to have already lost you once, but I promise I won’t lose you again twice,
and to this I can assure you to ensure my promise fulfilled, I will commit to anything you ask of me and do whatever you say and I would take any advice,
no matter how fruitless it may seem, for I am officially sick of being alone, and all of this empty space;
I am sick to my stomach at being away from you and wherever you want I will meet you, any time or place.
For if feeling good is a crime (and I’ve never felt this good until I laid my eyes upon you), someone had better lock me up right now cuz I feel fantastic,
and in regards to all of your truth and beauty, and all the love in your gorgeous heart, I have officially become an addict
for you. But when it comes to love, perhaps I am simply and without a doubt incompetent
cuz I fall madly in love way too easily. Then again, perhaps I am a delinquent
for failing to expertly spot the difference between human life, unconditional never ending love and horrifying misery,
but even with this said, if I were to die tomorrow, I would never want to go to Heaven, unless you were up there waiting for me.
To have you rare angel, I will delve deep into formidable places where no hero dare goes,
and upon hearing this you might reply ‘really? Well, tell me Pinocchio, how long is your nose?’
I am no liar, you have to believe me when I say I think I love you, and to ensure your survival, I’d push you out of the way of a nuke.
You won’t ever need to be a fabulously rich duchess for me to love you, but if you were, and you were to ask of me, I’d gladly be your duke.
After hearing these words Untitled Beauty, it might be best that you throw away your key after locking all your windows, and barring all the doors,
and make a pact with Satan, or pray to whomever God you solely believe in, for no existing mortal entity can save you anymore
from my love, which is invulnerable to harm. However, in reality, I have to ask you, in regards to romance, how can it be a good thing if those we love are doomed to die,
after pledging all of our allegiances and our love into their lives, and rare angels such as yourself succumb to destiny and perish, before plummeting out from the falling sky?
But if this unfortunate fate were to become yours, to get you back, I can assure you, I would traverse through the village of the damned,
if it meant eternal happiness could return to me again, and I could one day have my loving heart safely under your command.
When the world is at its darkest, and I’m drowning in the depression of the rain
I simply sit back and gladly admire your beautiful picture once again,
and imagine what you might ask me if we were to meet. You’d enquire ‘Derek, Naughty, whatever title you choose to go by’, before asking what I am going to do for you,
and I’d truthfully reply ‘I would take the stars right out of the night sky if such an act could prove my love alive and whole, and I would paint ‘em pink and purple and even pure gold too!’
It may sound completely out of this world insane, but what I say is not a total fabrication, and it certainly ain’t a ruse;
if given but one opportunity to spend my life with anyone, you are the only person I’d always faithfully choose,
because sweet Aayla impersonator, you are without a doubt one in 7.4 billion.
Dressing up in all those outfits moreover, you look exactly like a saucy chameleon;
you look incredible; you look beyond inhuman; you look flawless; you are perfect undoubtedly,
and with those luscious red lips and that sugar sweet smile I just know you are destined to belong with me.
Sometimes the darkness wakes me up and sometimes the silence speaks so loudly it is deafening to behold,
for whenever I am without you Untitled Beauty, I suddenly feel so indescribably cold,
because it is only in your eyes that I believe I have found where I eternally belong
and never until this moment which stands before me now have I felt so immeasurably strong.
However, in this inhospitable place, I fear I might be labeled the interloper, or the pariah
because of you my darling, for being all that I’ll ever want, all that I’ll ever need; for being my eternal desire,
and, to put a stop to this, people may light up their torches and sharpen their pitchforks too, before coming to claim me,
and will point to those who can corroborate that it was I, the antagonist, who acted with such vile villainy,
for all the boys who look upon you are filled with lustful gluttony, and the women become so jealous
at your unfathomable angelic beauty, and as for I, you make me so romantically ravenous.
Remember when I said this was not a love poem my dear? Well, I have to admit that perhaps I lied,
and if such be the case you could always blame it on the demon I have within this heart of mine inside.
I can assure you, I do not write these words in order to gain power, and I will certainly never need the likes of money or fame,
especially after I win over your beautiful beating heart, for then I will have everything I’ll ever need once it’s you I claim,
and although I still don’t quite know you, from your personality to your values, from your general likes and the neighborhood
you grew up in, judging by your looks alone, you deserve to be erected centre stage in the middle of Hollywood,
and then, once I’ve identified who you are and more, as promised, I’ll spend my life staring lovingly into your eyes forever.
The chance, if even there was one which I doubt, of me falling out of love with you my darling rests somewhere between naught and never,
so if you have ever had grave concerns, I ask that you ‘don’t fret, don’t cry and don’t ever believe
that feelings from your heart unto mine is not the one thing that I have always wanted to achieve.’
THANK YOU FOR READING!
SYNOPSIS: The title basically summarises the entire outline of the poem; the notion that someone is ‘out of one’s league’ is the theme of this piece, where the man of whom the poem centres around confesses his undying love for the woman he is infatuated with, knowing full well that he is not deserving of spending an eternity with her because she is far too amazing.
On this particular day, my heart and soul, shall dress totally in black;
figuratively and hypothetically, from now until forever, my heart shall never look back.
For I have made an empty silence, of my heart,
depriving myself of my true love as we begin to part.
Never will you know the way I truly feel,
such ideology originally appearing so surreal.
I begin to hear my heart violently riot and shout
believing this to be the young woman I am not to be without.
And yet in this fantastical reality of my so called life
I know you were never meant to be the mother of my children, nor my wife.
And although I will always terribly miss you,
I know in my heart, I’m never going to be good enough for you.
The sky begins to lose its colour and the sun irreversibly turns to gray,
at least that’s how it feels as I begin to turn my back and walk away.
I don’t know if it’s just the world or if I’m going insane
but I constantly find myself crying out your name.
Perhaps I am too late, but this feeling is running throughout my heart and soul,
I think I learnt what love is, but I’m afraid I let the trail go cold.
I attempt to trick myself to quit feeling the pain inside,
however the pain will break through; it always does, until it reaches the outside.
I know deep down without you I shall never be alright
the one good thing I need, I just can’t have tonight.
If love is anything, I have discovered it is a terrifying race
and in the end I’m constantly, if but lucky – left in second place.
In my mind I have these broken dreams whilst I attempt to sleep,
constantly it’s your face I see, which ultimately makes me weep.
If I could have but one wish I would grant you the gift to see
the roaring emotions I have for you which live inside of me.
However things shall go wrong, they eventually always do,
my soul never been given the ability to belong to you.
But I was so young and naïve when I believed in all of this,
believing I would one day have the chance to taste your forbidden kiss.
When I was young, like everyone else, I felt the sun would always shine
and that inevitably you would, on one glorious day, be mine.
But even if you should leave and completely disappear
a part of you will always remain within me right here.
I sat up on the roof last night and looked up at the stars,
under the cover of the moon I contemplated my life thus far.
As the sky began to change and become a far deeper shade of blue
my mind began to manifest all my thoughts onto one subject – which was you.
I pretended you were close to me, but it wasn’t nearly close enough,
without you standing close to me my life shall inevitably be rough.
I remember how I always love the way your clothes make you look;
you are so amazing because you never do anything by the book.
I too am cursed to remember the beauty of your laugh,
wishing to freeze such extravagant beauty within a photograph.
These memories constantly rip apart my heart and make me feel so foul,
I could not imagine how you could be any more beautiful than you are right now.
There’s nothing I wouldn’t ever do for you, but there’s nothing I’d do either,
I wish you could put yourself into the shoes of this cold, lifeless cadaver.
My love for you consists of a constant roaring emotion,
which is tossed about inside me like a ship on the ocean.
For not confessing these feelings to you I haven’t any legitimate reason;
this false identity I have created is as cold and lifeless as the winter season.
But if I were to confess my feelings, what words could possibly define,
the way I feel about this someone, who looks so perfectly divine?
When it comes to confessing feelings, I don’t need a book to show me how,
moreover, I won’t ever need a teacher to explain to me I want you now.
Because in all honesty it seems my ship has run aground
and you are the nesessary tide I need to come spin me back around.
I know your name, but I will not dare to write it down,
for you are the single most beautiful woman in this entire town.
I do not write down your name from fear of the embarrassment it would cause,
for you, the woman whose singular beauty has but not a single flaw.
However, by not confessing how I feel my eyes shall constantly weep,
your amazingly intricate beauty – it runs so extraordinarily deep.
The point of this journey of mine is to never actually arrive,
yet every time I look at you I am thrilled to be alive.
I know in truth we are not destined to ever be together
but I can promise you my dear, my love for you shall last forever.
I cannot keep up this facade much longer and my heart can no longer pretend
so here’s the truth – I’m the man of your dreams, masquerading as your good friend.
I wish you could take these words to bed with you and hold onto them at night.
I wish I could take you home with me and tell you everything will be alright.
I know there is a method in my madness as to why I live a lie,
in reality I hope I shall eventually live before I die.
For how could I allow the story of my love for you go untold;
such a narrative perfectly representing the day my heart was sold.
But all these dreams I have are constantly out of reach my friends said
and that all these thoughts are foolish schemes filling up my stupid head.
However, I think I’ve been true to everyone with the exception of you and me
and the way I feel causes me great pain and makes my heart long to be free.
Every time I look upon your beauty I am suddenly made aware,
that the woman I am fated to spend eternity with has constantly been there.
I remember the day I looked upon your intricately smiling face;
that day I was captured by a beauty my mind was unable to erase.
Such a moment of grand magnificence played out exactly like a scene,
one that had been captured directly from the silver screen.
It was such a shame then, as it is right now, that my heart I cannot trust,
for you, the world’s most beautiful young woman – I have an incredible crush.
I repeat these thoughts to myself almost every single day
and in the end I just don’t know how to quit feeling this way.
For I have constantly and will forever allow my love to play me the fool;
I follow society’s guide book on love, never breaking any of their rules.
For this I’m constantly filled with regret, whilst lost for what to do,
the simple truth is I’m never going to be good enough for you.