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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.

Land of my Many Disappointments

A map to the land of my many disappointments
awaits you at the end of this particular piece,
overshadowed by my inability to speak
the words I oh so long to say. I was sleepwalking
through my life, stumbling through the dimensions of
a dream, when I discovered you as though such an
occurrence was fated to be. I took your hand in
mine, and upon awakening from my slumber, there
you were standing before me, alive and real; at
least that’s the way I remember it. There is no
point to this story however, for the fractured truth
is that neither one of us resides on common ground,
despite us residing beneath the exact same sun.
The star, whose light wanders effortlessly across our
solar system, rises and sets to your unflinching
beauty, and I, the writer of this unprized poem,
could learn a hundred different words in a vast quantity
of languages, but never would I discover a word
capable of reflecting your attractive qualities.
Like the sun, you shine upon the surfaces of my skin,
and I would love to say that never have you shone brighter
than when you were shining upon me, but such an idea
would be a lie. I have seen you dozens of times or more in
locations where I would have had the opportunity to
say ‘hello,’ but never did I take this wasted option
and instead, you are left without my voice in your ear. I
would appreciate, unfathomably appreciate,
a moment when I could say without hesitation how
much I love you, and when this moment comes, say these words with
meaning I truly will. However, although these words of
intent be writ, I dare not describe the beauty of this
sweet damsel, for never could you, dear reader, succinctly
believe that someone so gorgeous could be at all
real, and if I had not seen you, my lady, with
my own two eyes, I too would find it impossible
to fathom that a woman, who is obviously
an angel fallen from Heaven, could possibly
walk amongst us mortals. But even though you be
beautiful, the love within your heart, reserved for a man
deserving, is never bestowed willingly upon my
soul, and thus, when you begin a sentence, conveyed to
me by your words that float towards my ears on the wings
of hapless angels, if such a creation begins with
an ‘I’, the next two words will never be ‘love you.’ The shame
of this is beyond reprieve, but it is understandable
all the same, for I am a one dollar coin when you need
a hundred dollar note; I am a plastic stool
when you need a leather recliner; I am a
cold take-away when you require a delicious
feast; I am an average metaphor when what you need
is an athlete of the written word. But love, if love
is all you need, just look into my eyes and you will
see that mine is endless in design; if only
you would ever look in my direction.


T’is not the beginning of a love poem.
Expect no admittance of romance, but of
tragedy; no romantic whose words bleed through
every pore and whose feelings intoxicate
the very world around them; instead, there will
be just blood and words that shan’t ever rhyme thrown
together like objects that ought never to
remain connected.


                               Only those of us who are
alive live in the here and now. What is the
point in living, when those one wishes to spend
eternity with are never by their side,
cursed to forever be apart by a zeal-
ous society that knows not the fortunes
of love and longing, but of a corruption
that stems forth from the unattainable.

of us hide who we truly are beneath the
shadows of fallen endeavours that never
came to pass. What I wouldn’t give to see the
future, to know what will be fallen and what
will rise above, to ensure my broken heart,
bereft with grief, is not injured any fur-
ther than what it hath already sustained.

cannot imagine surviving any more
pain than what has already crippled me so.
I miss the lovers I never had; the opp-
ortunities that were never taken; the
places where I have never been. There was man-
y a moment when I could have grasped the chance
to have what I do not, but never did my
heart grow the potency it needed to sac-
rifice it all for nothing more than a chance
that need not even be real.

                                          In the darkness of
the real world, there’s nothing good to be had here,
for the seeds of fantasises that grow within
my mind are unable to blossom in this realm.
A fantasy is but a dream, and therefore
is not supposed to exist after all, but
there are no lengths I would not go to in my
vain attempt to live the life I want so des-
perately to be mine.

                                 Why can I not step
out from a dream and into reality,
taking you, the woman I will love forev-
er and always, from one world into the next.
You already exist in this world, but you
know not of me. In my dreams you see me; you
feel me; you fall for me, my paramour, and
I for you, until the end of time. 

                                                In this
world you are rich and prestigious; utterly
famous and never without your infinite
glamour. In my dream however, you are still
you, but without the ego, and instead of
looking through me, you look right at me, and I
am noticed for the first time by your eyes. It
is then that your heart beats, not for you, but for
me, and in that moment you are mine, just as
I am gladly yours, and never shall this ep-
ic fantasy conclude.