Passion

There is no metaphor released from my dreams that might explain the truth of me.

 No description decorated with crown-jeweled words that might describe the meaning of you.

 There is just one ideal, one truth and here I’ll speak it bold—-

Whether my journey down this road will guide me anywhere of fruit and paradise

I do not know but I can hope and have done so for years too long

to be counted upon anything less than God.

I’ve written ballads and ballads and sonnets and storms of poetry

that flows and rhymes and whose metaphors spill out from every pore of my very being

and touch the hearts of anyone with half a desire to listen to the words

and take them in their hearts and minds.

I have lit women’s eyes.

But I want yours.

 I want your eyes that glow like light,

like stars, like beacons in the tempests that I so oft dream and describe in poems and in stories.

I want your eyes to glow like that from my words and I have no metaphors that I can use.

Page upon page of scribble and spilled ink have done nothing for me that quells

the hollow ache that bores its way so deep I want to scream

and cry

and forget all the tattered rags that make man man and rather become something primal,

symbolic,

and personified.

 I want to become an expressionist being that stands for nothing more than the love of you.

I want to touch you somewhere where no physical hands can touch,

but I want to pluck the strings of your very soul so that you can feel the echoes

and the chiming reverberations that fill me up to the brim like some melancholy wedding bell.

And I wish I could scream it out so that I burst,

 because I can’t hold it in as it flows and ebbs and tries to burst out my bones and skin and lips.

Oh God, what is it?

I have lived my life and only now have come to decide what makes man man is his beliefs

and the things that he stands for

and the fact that each is one and only they can decide what happens to them in the end,

and for every action of an outside being, it will not destroy the truth of that man’s life.

But love, oh love this sick and twisted thing relies so heavily upon another

 that it breaks me for I want to be free of it and have what I so desire…..

but I am alone in wants and desires……

so very alone in wants and desires.

You I feel I need with a passion that burns like the hottest flame that could be made by God himself

and I feel it in my pores.

I want to ravage time

and break down the barriers that hold us apart

and grab you and do terribly wonderful things to you everyday

and know that you, yes you feel as if you could not bear to be without me.

Desire, that viscious street car…..

Oh how Williams was right. So right in his writings of Stanley and Stella…..

there is nothing greater than that overwhelming need that makes one cry like a baby in his dreams at night of you……

who would give all he had to fight for you…..

who would want you so selfishly.

I have preached about love’s evils and its goods and passion and virtue and everything

I could and I am still not sure where I stand upon these things

because of this overwhelming ache that burns its hole in me like lava.

And I say too often that all I can say is this and then continue on until I say it again.

So let me end for now, relieved of some of my energy and my desire.

You are held by some other hand and I do not see that ache that burns in your eyes

 because you spend forever apart.

Content with it as if it was perfect for such time alone.

And I do not want to be one who hangs on legs and arms forever and a day,

but I need that ache to be there for it makes me know

I am alive and in love and I need that back and I think I can instill it…..

but what do I do?

OH WHAT DO I DO!

Reader who reads this prose-formed poetry and dotes a moment on it

despite is condensation due to constraints of nature and Fate,

tell me now what do I do and how do I do it…..

does not a one single person know?

I do not, and for it I believe that of all the things

I’m praised for doing and believing and achieving,

I am as worthless as the wasted lives of evil men whose talents died along with them.

No talent could ever do anything to the world,

not even mine, that would do half as much to me as your eyes glowing with my light