You should know words alone don’t touch me,
Unless they are Byron’s
Occasionally I’ll take Tennyson or Poe.
I’ve always liked surprises.
That is, of course, if you actually
I know that’s slightly a stretch.
Falling in love with the height of your tongue in your mouth,
rather than where you are placing your lips against my skin.
Choosing cadence over compliment.
Having ink over blood is in itself a curse.
But maybe, it is a security blanket all on its own.
You say you have a hard time impressing me?
Baby, just write me poetry.
If it is too much to have the tips of your fingers glaze over keys to form the right words, the right syntax
Then write words; write syntax.
And if it is too much to put your pen to paper,
Sink your alliteration into my skin.
Caress me with synonyms.
Kiss me with creativity and consider me yours.
No one ever said it would be easy.
Would you rather me ask for flowers,
Would you rather my love be easily obtained through sound, but not rhythm?
Would you have me fall for your eyes, though you weren’t staring at my soul?
If that is what you want, take it.
If that is all you can think about, lust no more.
My body is in itself no temple, it is only my mind that treats it as such.
But truly my mind is where my heart dwells,
So it is there where my sanctuary resides.
Not in words or thoughts alone
But in poetry.
In blue and black fingerprints known as typography that form patterns across a page.
In tattoos of ones creativity laid at the feet of the world, relying on its mercy to understand, to take pity.
But the world does not accept those like us, the world does not show us love.
For the world knows not the beauty of words,
Just rather the act of speaking.
The world has taught us to speak with our hearts and silence our minds
But then again, isn’t a mind a terrible thing to waste?
So then think to me
Think of me
Think for me
And enunciate your promises.
I ask not for the world,
But for your view of me:
I’ll take any or all three.
Make me your muse, or does that require empathy?
Without the words of
I am but a shell.
Call me not Tennyson,
Do not mourn me as Poe.
“And (they) loved with a love that was more than love”
Will I be your Annabel Lee?
Will you speak fountains
Or crush words into sentences?
Forget not your poetry.
For it is not with your hands
Or your lips, that I long for your intimacy.
Rather it is with your words that I want you to touch me.
“And this maiden, she lived with no other thought, than to love and be loved by me.”