Hypocrisy sits well aloft your eyelashes,
green, highlights your envy well,
aren’t you heavy yet,
I would have thought,
all that jealousy is quite hard to digest.
One day, you will ink a thought in my mind,
my conscience might tap gently on my fingertips,
and I will write you once more.
Try, until then,
to know that no one,
and no thing,
belong to anyone,
even the words you so tenderly bathed yourself in,
I don’t have a love that is poetically long and enduring.
I have billions of microseconds of explosive and volatile
love that births without warning and dies leaving a trail
Each breath in, a new love,
each exhale, a new death.
Otherwise known as muses.
I’m yet to find a muse that will own the entirety of me.
Devotion whilst noble and grand is uninspiring.
I love you,
a hundred times a day,
and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Forces the prose
Something about a muse that’s silent that grants you passage into your deeper realms.
She wore thick framed glasses and her colour was conviction,
Assured of herself, black, poised, my affliction,
She taps me gently on my fingertips wakes me for inscription,
She knows me well, feeds my addiction.
Wears her prose in balanced meter, long pauses of silence,
At times white noise, piercing violence,
Enamoured with adornments of the highest order, black diamonds,
She knows how to wake me and be my guidance.
Only a lover would know her and how she allures,
She’s divorce material, an obsession with no cure,
She’s the last person my wife would ever conjure,
Her name is The Night, black majestic grandeur.
I am saddened at the thought that a whole generation of young women will never have the opportunity of receiving a love letter.
Articulated – be it as poetic as Byron or as simple as a child’s innocence – with love and soul, carefully crafted, paper selection, ink and script, fragranced to suit your temperament, cursive leaning towards you as they cannot contain themselves from their advance, they are brimming to the top with ecstatic elation and a sorrowful hope that their efforts are realised and received.
She ignited my pen
It wasn’t just a normal pen any more
It was a fire breathing
Now all I can write about
is her flame
If you cannot suffer the pain,
You have no business falling in love with an artist.
Through song, writing, paint or any medium,
The pain inflicted is of two types:
If they love you,
It is agonising not to be able to love them back equally
If they hate you,
You will be the subject of ridicule in a masterpiece that destroys you.