Love is quite dangerous
The vice that holds all of us.
But it’s not love in itself
That’s bad for one’s health
It’s those ideas untold
That, our attentions, do hold
Causing the pain and the strife.
For me it’s a thought, an image, a dream
A girl with brown hair, and skin like sweet cream
Her smile lights her face
And makes my heart race
I draw her in close
So her hair tickles my nose
And we live in a beautiful life
I just cannot seem, to let this thing be
This idea’s made a captive of me
Like a slave master it whips
Forcing me with its grip.
I must do what it asks
As it sets me a task
Just know that to you I will cling.
It’s the idea my mind holds
It’s a lie my mind told.
And I believe it can be,
Just her, and just me.
The idea is what kills me
Not the love that consumes me
And so I will do foolish things.
---
If metaphor became reality, and similes lost analogy
Think of the poor men and women on the floor
With broken heart, literally in pieces, torn apart
Pockets empty from the cost of love that they have lost
Because it was misplaced along some path they had traced
With their finger on the back near where a knife would attack
Planted exactly there because passions flared
Leaving flesh black, scorched, scarred,
On the insane because that burning they were yearning.
Even when it’s good it wouldn’t be that good
Theft running rampant, no breathing, no hearts beating.
Parks full of puddles of women and men who are muddled
Because they were in a car until they went crazy and from afar
Other people wiz by, like magnets from the sky
Being attracted inexplicably, unable to react
To the metaphor become reality, and simile which lost analogy.
---
I had you once, in my hand.
You, the flower, I the man.
I looked long, I looked hard
Through the bushes of my yard.
Not all flowers are the same
Some flowers don’t have a name.
Some are squat, some are long,
Some attract birds and their song.
You, my dear little flower,
Radiated a different power.
Not quite to blossom, but on the verge
You called to me, I felt the urge
To take you into my home
Place you in a vase, your little throne.
I would care for you, until you bloomed,
Watch you with the sun, and the moon.
You have much promise, so much to share
As light bounces of your petals, you show you care.
So many dreams flood through my thoughts
Us at the table with the life we wrought.
I would make for you a special space
You could watch my life and give your grace
But As I slowly closed my fist
A shot of pain went up my wrist
It was your way of saying no to me,
You wanted to stay, to live and be free
Stuck to your bush, never to leave,
Never to share your beauty with those that grieve.
As it is always with my luck
You just weren’t ready to be plucked
A budding flower, so much to learn
One day for my table, you will yearn.
Time will pass, and so will I,
And you’ll be there alone to die
A new flower I will take.
A place at my table I will make.
A flower with thorns worn from life
Blossomed and beautiful, not afraid of the knife,
That would come and take it to a better place
One where I would make a space.
You had me once, cold and cruel
You the flower I the fool.