Lord, she's so beautiful,
but she's still my friend
I've done everything I can
to keep her safe from other men
Which isn't saying much
because this girl's so smart,
but what I've tried to save
is the innocence of her heart
With every bad man in her life
I just try to remain the same
because I've worked so hard
to have such a good name
and be someone that's reliable,
someone that she can trust,
but on my side of the coin
it's more than just lust
I throw her off my scent
by mentioning other girls
Little does she know
that she encompasses my world
How can she not know
that she's what I envision
when I think of the perfect woman
and provide the description?
**** any girl alive
that doesn't think they're beautiful!
Their heads are in the clouds
and their world's in cubicles
One day very soon here
I'll help her open her eyes
and maybe she'll realize
she's known the perfect guy

Once said
Birds of a feather flock together
Same goes for pigs and swine
I say
People together; all shape & size
Love n dance & commune with wine.

Metaphors like similes
Alluring alliteration
Onomatopoeic sounds
Swish swash through its creation
Full of figurative constructions
To skyscrapers of the soul
That rise to a crescendo
Then with bathos quickly fall
So what is it I have written?
Just a stream of consciousness?

For if I claim a classic poem
Then you’d be right to take the …. :)

It’s unnerving how after all this time
Even with clarity of experience
Of the conflagration and how
that burning pain eased so slow, then subsided to a dull ache
and finally to acceptance
How after all that seeming resolution
You are still a pretty moth with slightly singed wings
who appears to see a light in me
And I am still fuel to your particular spark.

How can a hollow ache?
Or a poet write?
When the part that felt is cut away
Excised with a razor of reason
Bandaged with the dressings of the Sensible
To be healed, so it is said, with time
Yet like the morbid curiosity of the child who picks at the scab
Or perhaps more akin; the itch of an amputee's phantom limb
There is still an ache
How can that be so?
How can a hollow ache?
Or, come to that,
A poet write?