I dream about being with a poet.
Writing a poem
Directly after making love,
Instead of sleeping.

Her hair would inspire words never uttered,
while her skin reacts to me like no other.
Her eyes would speak all emotions at once,
for me to capture with words on paper.

I'd gather up my things all the same,
leave her, because my gut didn't feel right.
So would continue my misery that is life.
Picky to a fault, hating this poem.

04/19/2006

Author's Note: *Archive

Posted on 05/19/2007
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