I don't love, love poems.

#X.

I am so happy when i don't
think of
him.
Those damn blu
eyes, winking, suggestive
of all is to be.
The ocean defines, and
abides, the waters of my passion.
One etching, one profile starts
my compulsive need to
surf. Pictures slip
through my fingers.
No order, or love.
He
prefers the stage. Well
wouldn't you?
The waves crash, the drums beat,
heart beats tempo, all
snuggled, closed,
no order to the
photos of time.
I fly, my prescription,
written. My defiance
covers the weakness
I feel when
his
image looks my course.
Of course, love is a
silly thing, obsessive,
an ownership that is
part imagination. Not
real. Not present.
With petty excuses,
that flatter my wish
for something that feels
real. As the pictures
slip through my heart.
I don't really need
him.

brain of c

wow.

Sian-of-the-dead

wow indeedy...