Inaccurate Confessions of a Misled Poetic part I
It’s hard to know you, and like you,
but not know what you’re going through;
it’s hard to tell if you’re real, or just a mask.
You know I like you; I Love you
-and don’t use those words lightly.
My heart has matured while
you are still just a girl.
Though I want to so badly,
I cannot tear my heart from within me.
Crushes fade, so do not misinterpret.
But I wonder if I’ve misinterpreted you;
you seemed to have discarded this heart I gave you.
Can you realize I just want to save you from the life you might have?
I can’t get you alone to tell you how I feel.
Though, I sacrifice to see you, you seem not to notice.
Why do you not believe?
It’s so hard to know you, and like you,
but not know what you’re going through
-what you have been though;
it’s hard to tell if you’re real, or just an act.
To my Best,
I now confess these
inaccurate
confessions
of my misled
poetic
state of light that you shade though your smile.
I am vulnerable to your touch.
The limb can sustain me only so long;
not even love can keep me hanging.
My mind screams “Jump, Little Children!”
While I’m stuck in these Cathedrals.
New York, and Rome haven’t been good to me,
thus I am dying.
I’m dying just to be with you. Don’t even mention Paris.
Like an hour long symphony,
or a Spanish themed Love song:
I really don’t like you. But,
I will always say yes when you ask.
I’ve said it before. I’m crying,
“I like you!” -and it is too true.
Christians were right to say how
your body is to die for, -and how
I long to be martyred. Yes, how
long must I last before I collapse in your love,
and lack of?
What must I do? My heart screams
“What must I do?” -when the killer in me,
is the killer in you.
To confess these sins of righteousness
is to be a heretic on the throne.
To Kill the killer is to die an enemy of
the ethics I swore solemnly to protect. But
to die as if death were dead to the life
is to be a paradox of a life hid within the grips of suicide.
Who am I to Love? What right of mine permits me to feel?
