Make me love you madly
Reach into my soul,
Rip my heart out of my chest
Then try to make me whole.
Spend a night, spend two perhaps;
Let our shadows do a dance.
Hold me close before letting go,
There is no second chance
Come daybreak and you’re gone;
My hands smell of you still.
You walk into my life with grace,
But walk out as you will.
I am the middle earth, my love.
I echo cries of languish.
I am the hopeless lover,
Living off hope and anguish.
I am the middle earth, my love;
The ‘wrong’ that you mustn’t do.
I am who you were warned about,
Not the one chosen for you.
I am the middle earth, my love.
Your purgatory, if you please.
I cannot be the one you love,
If you want to live in peace.
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The timelessness of each word he spoke,

The glow of his barely flawed skin,

The ageless smile ‘neath a wrinkled brow,

Heaving sighs of struggle within.

She can barely touch, let alone feel him.

Distant, cold and unattached as always.

His unwillingness to share, let alone give.

His refusal to give her that special place.

The endless quest for reciprocal touch.

The constant search for appreciation.

The countless tears and cries of languish.

The futile wait for gratification.

Her perseverance and longing glance,

Only met by his nonchalance.

Her endless search for reciprocity,

Met with his limitless, cold animosity.

 

Gather your equilibrium

When you miss those you walked with.

Walk alone, if you must,

In the direction of the rain.

 

Gather your equilibrium

When you miss those you talked with.

Speak to yourself, if you must;

Be heard for a change.

 

Gather your equilibrium

When you miss those you journeyed with.

Journey alone, for you must

Let life journey with you.

Down the road from everything,

But up the road from you.

Good for almost anything,

But not good enough for you.

Trying to be the best,

But the best keeps changing shape.

Perhaps it’s time to rest,

Quit running a losing race.

Well kept wives, manicured lives,

Pages of a book worth sharing.

Past-tense deeds, present needs,

Feathers on a hat worth wearing.

Chronic smiles, traversed miles,

Words of a verse worth writing.

 

(As  I wrote this, the very frequent writer’s block kicked in. I tend to believe though, that writer’s block is the writer within us trying to say “Stop trying to mass produce verse. This is not China!”)

Your beautiful, lukewarm sentiment,

It barely keeps her warm.

It’s times like this she wishes

She learned to love the cold.

 

Your perfect, practiced smile,

Barely lights up her face.

It’s times like this she wishes

She’d not been afraid of the dark.

 

Your eloquent, rehearsed words,

They barely reach her ears.

It’s times like this she wishes

She learned to appreciate silence.

 

Your perfect, plastic life,

Enough room for your plastic wife.

It’s times like this she wishes

You could sometimes be yourself.

 

Sell them a dream, you did.

Colours and bouquets and fields of gold.

Sell  them a sunbeam, you did.

Bright and warm and never cold.

Sell them a raindrop, you did.

Nourishing and wet and pure.

Sell them hope, you did.

A hope of which they could never be sure.

 

And now the clouds are over their heads,

Threatening to rain upon their souls.

You watch in silence as you eat their bread,

And set them free with their begging bowls.