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To the Future of my Happiness

When there is no appreciation to be had
from the readership of the words
produced by an avid interloper, what is
there to be garnered? What wish did I
long to have granted to me as the eye
of this here storm within my heart
thunders like a Kraken, awoken with a
fury that is bestowed upon my already
bludgeoned frame. There is no
happiness to be exumed from the
corpse that was once my loving heart,
which perished without a sound not too
long ago, as the realisation that love is
non-existent in my unwritten future,
drowned with a stressful effigy that my
soul could take no more. Alas, I have
already lost the battle to remain
grounded in my romance, for what else
can be torn from the inner sanctum of
my heart that has not already gone
astray? If love was a race, I failed to
even arrive last, and as I look at all the
happy couples swooning under the light
of the moon, I realise why I fell for you;
never can you hurt me, or bring me
crashing down, because you are beyond
my reach, and never will a kiss come
between these lips, that is shattered
violently in the latter revelation that
love was but an illusion which never
even existed at all. But of the people I
have met over the previous few year’s,
you are the only one I will happily leap
towards; you are the only damsel in this
universe I shall sacrifice my faith for, and
if a genie was to be granted towards these
hands of mine, the only wish I will ever
make; the only wish I will ever need; is you.

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.

With Undying Affection

Your smile, like thunder,
pounds in my eardrums
whenever it appears,
the beauty of its foundation
being incomprehensible
to behold. So I cringe
and shy away, believing
myself unworthy of
such a flawless sight,
which pierces my senses
like a serrated blade
that cuts down deep
into the fiery trenches
of my heart’s passion,
refusing to relinquish
its hold over me.
Although I have fought
the feelings postulated
by your very existence,
I have instead become
a slave willing to
humbly serve you,
with undying affection.

Head, Heart, Hope

I embarrassed and humiliated
a young woman today by
having published words that ought
never to have been written
months ago, regardless of
their accuracy or notions
of romantic endearment.
My infatuation is only ever
capable of deceiving my
inner self and distracting
the young lady they are
written for with ridiculous
delusions of grand emotion,
that are unable to be
orchestrated by these hands
of mine, no matter how
furiously I hope or pray.

I try so often to think with
the head rather than the
heart, for logic is unavailable
in the depths of decisions
that throb within my beating
chest. The passionate throes
that drift on an ocean rich
with unconditional desire
do not ever present my
future self with potential aid.
But I cannot dare let my
head take full control, for then
I would be a man fueled
by nothing more than zealous
intellect, for it is the heart
that love struck fools such as
I, spend their eternities hoping with.

Hope sustains the future, and the
longevity of love, but can it
truly ever sustain that which
was never there at all? A
feeling, like that which compels
me forward towards my
wishful journey’s end is not
anything that ought to be relied
upon to conclude happily. It
will instead tear me asunder
when the realisation that I am
living under the assumption of
ideas that cannot be promulgated
hits me with all of its tyrannical
force. I cannot dispute that love
is real, but it is just as terribly
painful unto myself to behold.

For a Teardrop of Affection

Dear love, have you abandoned me
this day? Have you granted me
the affection of the woman I adore?
If this is not the case, and the sun
has instead ceased to shine on me,
should I put my heart on auction,
and hope that my lady comes to me?
I can see it now; wanted, a woman
of beauty and intellect; of passion
and understanding; of truth and
divine appeal. Looks are not
everything, but it is true that I am
a man, and the shallowness of my
eyes prevents me from
acknowledging a woman, whose face
fails to capture me. This woman,
she must be an intellectual, capable
of holding a sentence between her
teeth, with enough space behind
her ear for a felt-tip pen. For she
is a writer, and words are her
kung-fu, and with just one punch
she will have you surrounded by
a sentence of her choice. This
woman, she must be able to
charm a cobra with but a glimmer
of a smile, for the poetry of her
personality permeates her world
with the everlasting fragrance
of the life that she enjoys. Her
laugh, must be experienced
in the act of happiness, and needs
to feel like roses caressing the
naked skin rather than the
shattering of broken glass. This
woman, she must have an accent,
quite unlike the one which escapes
my lips, for the sound of an
Australian, to me, has little
romantic appeal, and if she can
speak another language
altogether, well, she would have
certainly plucked the strings of
my attention, from now until
time’s end. This woman, she
must appreciate the touch of
jeans and trousers upon her
legs, not just the billowing of
the wind, or the glisten of our
nearest star. She must not
accommodate every feminine
tradition, and must be capable
of becoming not a stereotype,
but her very own person. The
colour of her eyes; her hair;
her skin, is all debatable, much
like the touch of tattoos and
jewellery, which inevitably,
will always have my approval.
Lastly, and this is non-negotiable,
this woman must be capable of feeling
an affection towards me, and if
this be true, then love it must
surely be, and with a smile, and
a heart of unending greatness,
I will tame the wildest oceans,
cross the driest continents, and
brave the most heinous of storms,
if it means I could kiss the woman
I shall marry and adore from now
until the collapse of everything
that makes me who I am this day.

With Crimson Passion

Have I flirted with you too much
my lady, or have I flirted too little?
Has my liking you being revealed,
or has it remained unseen by all?
Have my advances been too
ambitious –  is there in fact no
mutuality tying us together?
Are my feelings written across
my face, like words upon a page,
or are they still in darkness,
untouched by the dawn? Have
you considered me a lover,
and if the answer is indeed a ‘yes’,
I would very much apprecaite
the opportunity to submit
my application for quite possibly
the greatest job around. Will
this story end on a note of
happiness, or is this another
tale of agony verbatim? I only ask,
for you are a light bulb shining
brightly in a lighthouse on the
seaside, and I am but a moth,
traveling upon the night wind.
Hands have tried to swat me
right out from the air, for it is
believed by some that only
butterflies ought to take flight
upon the Earth. If this is to be
a tale of woe, when the hands
of you and I do touch, my body
shall be eviscerated the moment
my physicality connects with yours,
for in a tale yet to be touched by
humble love, a globe of light and
a sweet moth are not destined
to be friends. But if you share my
feelings, and believe the opportunity
for romance is one that ought
not to be forgotten, I will happily
fly to you, and kiss your crimson
passion with all my lusting heart.

Upon the Moment of Love’s Tender Touch

‘I’ll go out with you for dinner’
said the woman who had attracted
my attention span, but never
would she really like me; want me;
love me, so it be pointless to accept
her invitation, unless she is capable
of proving her affections to me.
I never asked her to go to bed
with me; just to prove her love
was true, and since such a concept
is obviously far too difficult
for her to comprehend, it is obvious
that I am not to be blessed paramour
of a future yet to see the sun
of a new day; I am simply a stand-in,
until the moment she meets
the man she can truly love,
and once again I will find myself
essentially alone upon this tragedy
coming to fruition, and my shadow
is all I shall have for company;
and that is the worst fate any romantic
could possibly ever endure.

A Fool for Your Attention

You would not ‘like’ this poem
if you truly knew who inspired
the subject matter of this here
text; that would be you, my lady,
with your so lovely eyes that
transcend across the page
with riveting gusto, who has
enthused the writer of this verse,
and the man that I have inevitably
become. These words have
been deliberately typed upon
this page to wickedly ensnare
your attention, in the hopes
that you will abandon all logic,
and decide upon living a life
with me. I will note however,
that I shall not go willingly
into the night without an
answer, or a goodbye kiss from
your lips that are of such a gentle,
smooth texture. But even with
these romantic endeavors
immortalised upon this page,
where they stain the internet
with their unjust loving, woe
follows me to this location, for
your passion I am ultimately
undeserving; your compliments
are wasted upon my words;
your sentiment proves
to be too kindly for such
a fractured soul as I; a fool
of these here featured words
who fails at being an entertainer,
but especially proves himself
capable of inciting misery.
(Now, quietly, so our whispering
is inaudible almost) I really,
truly love you, although how
can I be sure, for without
you by my side this day,
the evidence of my feelings
is underwhelming. I will not
allow my love to be denied
by a clause in the legalities
of love, which dictates that only
those connected at the wrist
with the fingers of their paramours,
may project their feelings unto
the world around us. My feelings
are just as true, for I know
my heart; I am its keeper
after all, and although I am
unimpressed that my love
muscle has fallen for a beauty
who is unattainable, I cannot deny
that it is the truth I feel,
and if only you could feel it too
my dear, you would know,
in that moment, that I can never
tell a lie when it concerns the heart.

Unaccepted by Destiny

When I was young; when
I was a novice of the
written word, I asked
an adept manufacturer
of creation how it was
that she could articulate
a poem; and she said to
me, in happiness, ‘just
write what it is you feel.’
But what if I have no
feelings? What if no one
wants to know the feelings
in my heart? What if the
woman I am attempting
to woo with much
affection cares not for
my avid love, for that
right there, that four
letter word, is what I feel
right now; but how to
get the beating heart of
my wishful paramour to
arrange a time to hear
me out this day? I cannot,
that is the answer, and I
never will, the irony of
this occasion being
blinding to the senses. I
became a poet to express
that which I could not
any other way, and even
then after so much time
had passed and I had
tried my hardest to
succeed, I was a failure
in my maiden’s eyes of
cruelty. She could not
feel a thing for me, and
never was there an
attempt to spare my
heart which beat for her
so eagerly every time I
breathed, and without
her in my life this night,
what more is there to
say? How can I express
my sadness to an
audience not within my
proximity; an audience
who shall never hear my
voice or even know my
name? I have my words
to give to you, but shall
they ever be enough,
for never could they
captivate the darling I
was hoping to ensnare.
You may also have my
tears as they dribble
forth from my eyes
before being plucked
by the parchment I am
using as the conveyance
for my thoughts. But
never shall anyone again
have my heart, for that
desolate muscle of
passionate throes is
now officially obsolete; it
has crumbled into
nothingness and left me
bereft with an eternally
empty wound that
shall never heal; for if
my destined lover
could not accept me,
I do believe it is obvious
that no one ever will.

The Penitent Practitioner

A heads up; this poem contains a number of sexual references. Hope you enjoy the read ladies and gentleman!  😀

My heart beats and I follow
its rhythm right towards your door.
My chest heaves and I pursue
the almost orgasmic sensation
directly to your thighs. My pupils
wander towards your bosom and I undress
the many layers of your attire
until all that I can see is flesh.
My soul flutters and flies in the direction
of your body, where it becomes captured
by your ensnaring gorgeousness.
My genitals jiggle with an erotic
quiver whenever I view the movement
of your legs, and where such appendages
meet your back, swaying like leaves
on the wind. Oh, how I crave
the sexual tragedy of forgetting
all of my past lovers in exchange
for entering your sweet mouth
with my moist tongue, and burrowing
into the depths of your centre
with the sword in my pants each moment
your eyes dance across my features.
The intensity of these feelings
are doubtful in their romance, but rich
with sumptuous appeal, and even if love
is not on the menu tonight, my dear,
to be blunt, your succulent clitoris is,
and from the moment I take your flesh
into my mouth, you shall know pleasure
like never before, because my love
may not be what you crave this night,
but all that I give will have you
ravishingly begging for so much more.
This here is my gift to you,
for within these arms, and in the confines
of my bed come nightfall, you will never find
truer love than all that I penitently offer.