I am a cliche poet.
I compare most of your parts
To the cosmos;
I refer to love as immortal,
The soul as ethereal,
The spirit as bird-like,
Death as a cave, surely dark and lonely,
And nature has a magnificient part
With all its pathetic fallacies,
Sunrises, sunsets, tides.
I once compared a man's legs
To an aerial roadmap,
And a ***** to a bull frog
In the Savanah.
O, the crosses I've borne to explain saying
I love you
Without sounding trite.
I may resort to prose
And dress up the poetric mantra.

Seduced by clichés of love,
We signed on for wedding doves,
Being at those wedding receptions,
All clichés of norms' conventions,
Having a cream puff wedding day,
An expensive way of getting laid,
All clichés for the bridal industry,
Trite cant, and hypocrisy,
BUT--the appliances outlived everyone!!
Wedding gifts when once were young,
On film noir weddings I ponder on,
As these golden years I wander from,
All that phony hypocrisy,
Cliches and norms of society,
D.I.V.O.R.C.E.
(Who didn't hate going to the in-laws for tea?)

I am too emotionally drained
To write a poem that rhymes

I am sick of being a part of your waiting game
We are worth more than your procrastinated time

Oh, look, I rhymed without trying
I suppose I had it within me all along

Defy, and stop them from attempting to divide
Please destroy all preconceived notions and odds

H

A kitty in hand is worth four wings in the sky!

You're not just "beautiful".

No, I mean, yes, you are beautiful, but jesus, when I say "beautiful"
it's not beauty like perfect "golden, glowing, soft halo" or whatever the hell writers like to glorify about some strands on your head
or having a "radiant smile" or "blush of a fair maiden" or things that wouldn't even make a lick of sense
if not for
biological evolution, physical attraction and Shakespeare.

No it's beauty that your mind is radiant, it's a tragic galaxy that I want
nothing more than to live in
and your heart is beating and it continues to
and you continue to, even when
you feel defeated
because it's you and your mind battle
and you scream out in
every way possible, your spirit and voice is  an orchestra that resonates somewhere in between my ribcage and my lungs and the words
the very words you use,
doesn't that tell more about you than
how "skinny your thighs are"
or how your "eyes glisten in the moonlight"?
Doesn't that tell me more than your "curving nose"or the "sway of the hips"?

No I'm not going to ******* love you for your "porcelain skin" and the
stupid "contours of your spine", I won't worship you like a poet --
I'm not going to praise your "romanticizing self-destruction",
which is so over used,--
can't you understand, beauty is not the face you wear but
the beauty that rakes itself over coals,
the sacrifices you make and the passions you care for,
the darkest secrets that you harbor
at any given midnight, and
even the way you like your ******* tea in the morning.

So when I say you're "beautiful", just know I'm not a poet.

Human beings are constantly trying to survive.
I'm not talking about the whole breathing aspect or biological capacities and such,
I mean survive.
The cliche of being born to die stands true.
Every day we near out demise and most days it seems like some sort of struggle to wake up.

Most of us adore the sweet feeling of rest.
The tinge of having another hour of laying on the horizon.
The heaviness of the lids which seem to always win battles.
The hardship of getting our balance to start our days.

Yes, there are some that wake up with a burst and seem to pull it like a band aid but no matter, gravity still has its strength.

Survival...
The fight in our minds to figure what it's worth.
That moment when we need to get up and the thoughts that get us to do it.
Work, classes, kids, obligations, etc.

But what about when that sweetness becomes our tragedy?
When responsibilities and schedules seem to not concern us?
When life is better worth lived in the warmness of our sheets?

We put labels and we have medicines but it comes down to something much deeper.
For I would rather lay there then be numb whilst among the world.
I rather feel not and be me, feel the disparity of my being than have something control me.

Survival...
It is with ourselves that we must assault.
There is no gravity, no chemical, no weapon, no words, that are stronger than those which stalk our every thought, those unseen and unheard, those unfelt and undiscovered, those of which we carry in the highest throne.

We must bare this idea of survival on our own with no sense of reprise, or orthodox.
We either rip or linger, either way, we must continue.