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Undelivered Feelings

The silence spoke volumes
I didn’t know existed
when these undelivered feelings
coursed through me. Though the ending
retained a sense of predictability,
my eyes refused to witness
the brutality of unwavering honesty,
the tender touch of my agenda
restraining the hopelessness
often applied to romance.

Always, I try frenetically
to grasp that which shines the brightest,
only to continuously return
with empty hands and bludgeoned heart,
to an existence
seemingly more meaningless
than before. Though you are a beauty
of utmost arousal, you are a cactus,
whose spines thwart the undeserving masses
with unequivocal poison,
my heart wanting to retain its warmth
than face the solace-less alone.

So, I hide within myself, malcontent
yet absolute, certain this tragedy
will provide a conclusion, better sustained
than what would have been.
With able mind I realize,
I will not risk your face,
so beautiful now,
turn into a scowl
the moment I reveal my feelings.
If this decision renders accusations
regarding confidence
and cowardice wrought against me,
then these slanderous remarks
I will regrettably suffer
without dismay, for I acknowledge
my deserving of these titles,
and I own this hesitation.

If only a sign, so subtle,
but immediate and paramount
could be issued, granting me allowance
to whether you were open
to love’s flame,
or wanted it blown out.
Despite the combustion of atoms
retaining less potency
than my love for you,
to some, romance is a horrific poison,
but even so, I would devour every drop
for you alone, if only to spend eternity with.

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.

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.

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.

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.

The Necessary Lie

I am that terrified man
the people witness upon
the street; haunted by
the potential death of a dream
that he wished to have come
to fruition, but never did receive.
I loved with an unstoppable
emotion, contained within
my heart of hearts, for if you
were a collectable my dear,
like a trading card and such,
never in all my years
would I consider giving you up.
But these feelings, like a specter,
they remain undetected,
because there is a force
so mighty, halting my heart’s
voice from dominating the airwaves.
I do not believe in honesty,
for the truth would hurt
your heart, and instead of seeing
so much clearer around
every turn, you would feel so uneasy
at the thought of laying
eyes on me once more.
Lying may be sinful,
and leave your heart bereft
one day, but tomorrow
it will do nothing short of relieve
you of all pain, so you may
be the woman you were
always destined to become.
To ensure the promulgation
of this eventuality,
I go without the woman
who could do me good,
for you deserve more than
my hand upon your shoulder
or my love within your heart;
you deserve a life of beauty,
and my very existence
is the opposite of everything
I would ever want for you.
And so, with this thought
in mind, I convince myself;
you don’t want my love;
you don’t want me, neither
of which could ever satisfy
your soul. The sparkle
in your eye shall dissipate
when you look to me
with the truth on your mind,
belittling you so, like a morbid
plague, and to avoid
this circumstance, a lie
is thus necessary.

Perilous Waters of Pain

It is pointless for I to love thee,
for you could never have feelings
for the person that I am. Never
could you look to me and think
how you wished to experience
a dinner, with I sitting across
the table for two from where
you are seated.

Never do I enter your dreams
as you lie comfortably
in bed, beside a man who,
in comparison to me, has none
of my many features, because
inside and out, we are not
the same, and never will I hold
anything of interest to your
heart and happiness.

Because of this, I will cry myself
to sleep this night I am without you,
and every night that is to come,
until time itself no longer ticks,
for although the realist in me
knows how pointless my pain
surely is, and how it shall go
unnoticed forevermore,
the romantic in me still holds
onto the belief that a destiny
together awaits us on the
other side of tomorrow.

So let it be writ that I can wait no
longer for my wanted paramour
to fall into these arms of mine,
and although the dark clouds
of a mighty depression are
brewing beyond my window,
with the torrential rain of
painted death preparing
to serenade my soul, I will
not allow the plan I had once
considered to become the
fate that shall greet me next
morning.

Once there was an unhappy
time when I would have
contemplated shoving a blade
through my jugular and
expelling the water from within;
such would have been excruciating,
but afterwards, all I would have felt
is shock before falling into a deep,
dark coma, from which I would
never awake nor see daylight
again.

I live by myself, and I realise,
that no one would have
found my body, until I was
nothing more than a fleshy
heap of compost gathering
flies upon the surface of what
was once clean carpet.

But I know that this fate would
never lead to the woman that I
love the most, and although you
may not love me tomorrow,
nor any day that comes
thereafter, I will love thee until
I find another amazing woman
who steals my heart away, who
I hope will not already have
her love belonging to another.
Until that day does arrive, I will
love you, and that for me is
good enough at this very moment.

Where I Am Right Now

To the woman I have fallen for,
you know exactly who you are.
I saw you once from across the room,
and without a word,
you had me wrapped around your finger.

Our time together,
although it really wasn’t ‘our time’
and together we certainly never were,
was spent apart,
with an opportunity presenting itself
every so often
for me to take a glimmer of you.

I drew you into me like oxygen,
even when I did not want to,
and I remember thinking
how I wanted you as my own.

Even now, as I try to articulate this into words
it is difficult to fathom,
for you simply were yourself,
just as I simply was attracted to you.

The courage I needed to tell you,
(a woman who is totally out of my league,
for you have made your bed
with those I do not associate with)
that I had been crippled with an infatuation,
and the only cure to what ailed me was your affection,
was beyond my very comprehension.

Of course, I should have realised
you would be unavailable.
I don’t know if you lied,
maliciously or with omission,
it does not matter,
for I promised to respect your answer
and to never bother you again.

I had every intention of obeying
the decision I had conceived,
and could even become accustomed
to never having you at all.

But what I cannot become accustomed to,
is having to see you endlessly once a week,
not a month after I asked
for your affection.

There you are,
every week without fail,
tormenting me.

You needn’t say a word,
nor do anything;
your very existence pains me
because until I see you again,
I am free from my feelings for you.

Then, I see you,
and every emotion violently re-enters my heart
and I become overwhelmed
with the burdening knowledge
that never will you feel anything for me.

I cannot move on either,
for no woman could ever compare to you
while a piece of you
remains right here with me,
even after I have tried, without success,
to remove you like poison from a wound.

I know how unhealthy this is,
and I have tried to avoid you,
but every path, inevitably,
leads right back to where I am right now.

There may come a time
when I never see you again,
and I will be so glad for this,
because finally, I shall be free.

But if I ever did see you again,
this I could not take,
and again I would be doomed to feel for you,
a romance that could never in a million years
compare to any other emotion.

I guess what I am trying to say is;
I absolutely loathe you,
just as I loathe myself,
because I unconditionally love you
with all my heart and soul,
and until the day
that neither of us are fated to meet again,
I shall remain,
singularly and hopelessly devoted to you.

On this note,
allow me to write,
I am, if you shall have me,
faithfully forever and always yours.
Sincerely and with kind regards,
the writer of this here verse.