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Oxygen

Your lips kiss mine with
an unrelenting strength
of heart, breathing new
life into this cadaver.
The soul of a heartbroken
interloper is replaced
again by the romantic
within me, who I believed
had been permanently
lost. Your affection caresses
every muscle of my
interior form, and removes
the bruised appendages,
safeguarding my adoring
heart with the spirit of
passionate intensity. As
long as your romance
propels me forward
across the rainbow of
sumptuous delights, I
will happily live through
the days which spawn
before me, if only to die
at night when our flesh,
covered in the sweat of
pleasurable contact, does
touch within the apex of
a luscious dream sequence.

No Man Shall Love You, the way I Always Will

I would die, happily, if it meant I could hold you for but a moment,
before the end became so near.
I would sacrifice my soul to Lucifer himself,
if it meant those lips of yours,
even for the briefest of moments,
could penetrate my defenses and so gently touch mine.
I would spend every dollar I ever had to my name,
if it meant you could just look at me
and say ‘I know you are there young man,
and one day, in a future not yet written,
I will gladly be yours.’

I would rip apart this universe at a catastrophic level,
if it meant my efforts enabled me to gaze upon you tomorrow
for but an hour or more.
I would kill for you if you did ask,
and take the lives of millions if your attention I did garner,
once the war was won.
I would ignite a revolution
if it meant that anything would change,
and you may one day give a damn about my love for you.

I would tell you how I feel
if I believed that you would listen,
but you be blinded to my features,
and you be deaf to my words,
and I could scream the lines of this here poem,
but never would you look at me,
for you are you and I am me and never the two shall meet,
because our destinies dictate not this future,
but separate lives instead.

So I ask the cherub that shot me with an arrow soaked in eternal passion,
why was it I was fated to meet this woman,
when it is her I cannot romance,
for one can only truly love a person who happily loves them back,
and never are you going to love me.

The cherub does not answer;
he simply disappears,
as do you not a second later, never to return again,
for even if you knew my feelings,
another man you will always find;
not to maliciously break my heart every time you kiss another gentleman,
but because you will never recognise my face;
the face of the man of your dreams, masquerading as a stranger,
and although love, you may one day find,
it will only ever be pretend,
for no man shall ever love you, the way I always will.

I Feel A Little Cold

Groaning, wailing, crying;
clouds are cringing
as the cold air blows through.
I dare not say a word
as the wind, like icicles,
stabs me again and again,
my body incidentally
shielding yours from the
ominous weather patterns
planning to deface me.
Ironically, I am there not by
choice, despite my feelings
as I adjust my mask. My
mask is the birthday suit
I was born with, but it hides
perfectly the emotions
threatening to be revealed in
the semi-tornado wind.
‘Fancy that’ you say, ‘a
tornado in Melbourne’ and I
subtly nod my head, hopeful
that this distraction will keep
you from noticing the truth.
The truth that we would be
better as lovers than as the
masquerade I have
orchestrated due to my
intense fear of committal.
But as the wind blows
and your hair billows in
the gusting breeze, it ain’t
just my mask that is being
beaten away, but my fears
and anxieties too. In that
one moment I put my arm
around you, protecting you
deliberately this time from
the freezing cold. Perhaps this
will prove to you my feelings,
without my need to verbally
convey the truth. If not,
the kiss I place on your lips
will certainly do the
talking for me. So here’s me
thanking God for bad weather,
for it brings people together
and makes love so much
easier to convey.

That Woman

SYNOPSIS: I would never say this poem was about the ‘stereotypical’ woman. However, unlike other pieces of mine, this poem is more realistic. To put it simply, I’m kind of taking the piss out of the more traditional love poem and orchestrating something that is quite the opposite in comparison. Please know, I am not trying to seem unusually cruel with some of the words and sentences that I have constructed.

 

That woman, she ran her hand through her hair,
and then the dandruff spilled out everywhere.
It was then that I suddenly knew,
the girl of my dreams; she wasn’t you.

That woman, she has herself a very flat chest;
in fact I wouldn’t even call what she has ‘breasts’.
I do not know what title to give to either of them,
I just know their small size, I cannot begin to fathom.

That woman, she forgot to apply mascara around her eyes,
and by God, was I in for one helluva unforeseen surprise
when I eventually saw her looking so tired and weary,
the lines around her eyes completely tarnishing her beauty.

That woman, she wears random clothes that on her person are just so tight,
and normally I would believe myself to be in for quite the delight,
for nearly all the women who wear clothes a couple sizes too small are often really sexy,
but in her case, with many lumps of flesh sticking oddly out; let’s just say the sight was not pretty.

That woman, she ate a huge chocolate cake in just one mouthful;
who knew her jaws could be so elastic or quite so powerful?
But that’s not the worst part; she ended up with most of the chocolate all over her face,
and if I had known the repercussions I wouldn’t have let her eat it in the first place.

That woman, her skin is not light nor is it dark. No, it is oddly tanned.
Unfortunately for her, such a look is not in regular demand.
In the dark she looks like a specter and in the light she looks like a grim shadow.
She looks like nothing I’ve seen before; it’s the kind of look no one wants to follow.

That woman, she has these thin lips that are lacking colour,
and the rumor is they come with a disgusting flavor.
They are not red or white or dull, and do not look at all kissable
and in a crowd, they are unfortunately so recognisable.

That woman is a foreigner; she isn’t from this state, nor is she from this country.
Just look at her! She has a completely different racial background and ethnicity.
Due to this, she has trouble with conformity, but especially with communication,
and attempting to spend even a small allotment of time with her can lead to exhaustion.

That woman, she is not tall, nor is she somewhere in-between;
no, she is short, and in large crowds she cannot even be seen.
Perhaps this could be visualised by some as an extraordinary blessing
for some have said that what makes her who she is, is really quite embarrassing.

That woman, she has this antiquated laugh and an annoying high pitched voice,
and if I were to listen to somebody she sure wouldn’t be my first choice.
What’s worse, she always says what’s on her mind without a single care in the world.
Oh why, oh why can’t she be like any other stereotypical girl?

That woman, she is corrupted, to say the least, by just so many identifiable flaws,
and I cannot wait to discover her views, her mannerisms, her personality and more,
because, right from our first encounter, she has had me wrapped tightly around her index finger,
and my heart, it has discovered the one thing that it needs, and so I am forced to surrender.

That woman, to me she is perfect in every way. That woman, to me, she is so captivatingly beautiful,
because she is just so real in contrast to anyone else that I know, and to me that is more desirable.
That woman, she has stolen my heart, my soul, and I’m cursed to love her forever.
I cannot wait to tell her how I feel so we may begin our life together.