Here is something I might not ever say,
but something sitting in my mind everyday.
How could I have done it in so many ways?
And end up so tragic like Shakespearean play?
I might be a saint to tell that I love you,
When you aren't listening or taking the clue.
Lately I find myself huddled in rue
and regrets and shades of the color blue.
I think it was obvious in other things said,
in how you're the one making me not want dead.
I hoped you'd catch on when I'd say go ahead,
telling me of your worries before I lay in bed.
I loathe it now how I never told you straight
but now feel so rushed that my words are too late.
If I wasn't anyway, then that would be great;
but if I am, I don't think I can clean my slate.
I love you, I have and I always will.
It's too late to think that this feeling I'd ****.
I fear that to say so, I needed this skill--
I'm too **** adept and it's barely got thrill.
Strange how I need to voice this out in rhyme,
but not to you directly, I've left that sublime.
We've had so much minutes, hours and time,
I don't know if this can get any more prime.
When you just don't hear me, I told you the truth.
That my heart was yours forever; forsooth
and it's in our nature, to make errors of youth.
But we're ahead of our age, reality's sleuth.
Maybe you won't read this, I won't be surprised.
But for my sake I've written, and gone undisguised.
My sentiments for thee have been compromised.
Once more I could love you before my demise.
Love's a *****. I'm working out the kinks of telling the truth and coming clean about it. I'm too young to be stressed about it, but C'est la vie. The heart wants what it wants; there's no way you're leashing and chaining it from what it craves.
