This is a poem or more like a proclamation to some one very special to me |
Definition My heart gives birth to sensual genius, Producing images of desire, lust, and romance; That Shakespeare's sonnets could not. I take control of these words, Words, my dearest, That may as well puncture the sky or even my heart. Total serenity may not put out these flames of pure desire, Nor can distances keep us apart, Through life and death or heaven and hell. No give me more heaven, More of your soul that i crave. Your beautifully crafted soul That God must have molded With loving hands and a purpose That even a blind man could see. Darling, I can picture it now. Together for the rest of our lives. No! The rest of eternity. For only God decides when we shall go. Love, you may be asking, "Who dares write this profound narrative of the heart. It is I, the one who loves you, Even if this was my last day on earth; For without you, My heart is ripping out of my chest. It was on fire, And this solitude is torturing me. Beloved, your happiness is my happiness; For if you love another, And they return their love; My life would have served its debt. Your tears would be my tears, If your heart feels broken and empty. I would be a planet orbiting your sun. I would be there for you. I must stop writing this proclamation of my heart; For I feel tears coming in these eyes of mine That may stain these words of love Before I place them into your hands. Hands that I wish would hold mine, For they are now trembling And can no longer produce these epics from the heart. Please tell me to stop! Tell me I'm a fool! An idiot, a child, a dreamer. My heart is breaking and constantly aching for you, For these verses are the definition of: I love you. |