If

If I could write like Whitman

If I had the words of Frost

I'd tell you how I felt in prose

Lest it all be lost

If I could speak like Shakespeare

If I had the mind of Donne

I'd have let my heart run wild

Before it all begun

If I could see the world as Auden

If I had the heart of Yeats

I'd choose to fall for your blue eyes

Before I fell for Fate

Where are you?

Where are you love? Where are you? You must be out there somewhere, waiting just like me. Counting down the minutes until we finally meet. Or maybe you are out there just as I am, with a book upon your pillow and a pen within your hand. Perhaps I've even met you but it was simply not the time for our eyes to meet in sequence as you place your hand in mine. Oh, but my impatience, how it haunts me so. I wait around in silence, pacing to and fro. I listen to the rhythmic beats of my heart dancing in my chest. Where are you love? Where are you? Without you I can't rest.

All we really want

The days, they pass with swift goodbyes

As I find myself staring into your blue eyes

Ever wondering what your thinking

Preventing my whimsical heart from sinking

For the words that choke me and steal my breathe

lie just beneath the surface

They keep me from speaking, they swell in my mind

All the while, we're wasting time

Stuck on rules and regulations

In hopes of avoiding a bad situation

When all we really need is each other

A warm hand to hold, a light to guide the way

A loving embrace, a reason to stay

All we really need is something simple

To love and be loved in return

He is...

He is the type of man all others aspire to be; a true leader. His eyes, gentle and honest, mimic the altruism in his soul. His hands are soft and rounded and represent the kind of strength every woman looks for. His arms hold the security of the Roman Empire at its peak. Everything about him is unique yet accessible. He has seen much pain in his life and is stronger for it. Life lessons were not something he failed to grasp or to share with others. He is grounded and stable and understands the ways of the world. His smile is genuine as that of child. He is the type of man any woman would be lucky to call her own.

"Awesome"

“Has anyone told you how awesome you are?” She read the sentence with immediate irony. “Awesome” you say? Oh, how she missed the simplicity of such a word. There were no complications with “awesome,” nothing to read into, no implications. Everyone knew just what it meant to be “awesome.” While the word was seldom in her vocabulary as of late, it still made its way to the front line every now and again. Someone once told her she was far better than the insipid nature of “awesome” and he was completely right. It was a rather colorless word for a vocabulary such as hers. But she liked it. She liked the essence of something being “awesome.” It reminded her of Mark Twain. “My books are like water; those of the great geniuses are wine. (Fortunately) everybody drinks water.” That was how she viewed the word “awesome,” it was the water of her vocabulary and one can’t make wine without it. “Has anyone told you how awesome you are?” They have now she said with a smile, they have now.

Three Small Words

Three small words, said all too much
And they meant nothing to you
And even if I felt it
With every fiber of my soul
It wasn't enough to tell
Not enough for you to know
The wind, it twists and turns
And clock just keeps on ticking
As I play the situation in my head
All the things that could have happened
All the things I should have said
Repeat like a broken record
Reminding me its through

The bittersweet taste
Of your words on my tongue
Everything we left behind
And all we could become
They circle me in torment as I constantly forget
That everything we ever were is lost in regret
And nothing makes it worth it
And nothing makes it less
And nothing makes it better
And nothing makes it rest
And what should I expect
For love is always blind
And now there's nothing I can do
To get you off my mind

Amory Blane

She had once called him the Walt Whitman of his generation, save his impatience with pens and paper. His words seemed to follow as if from a divine force and he was but the medium. She realized now, he was less the Whitman type and more so the Fitzgerald; more specifically his self manifestation in Amory Blane. Every pain he felt was surely the first of its kind. His love was the purest of this dimension. Each word he spoke was infinately more orignial than its predicessor. Of these things he was sure. Convinced only of his humble superiority, he journeys through life alone and feeble. He thurst for someone to connect with on a deeper level yet seeks only the vanities of the world. Well liked by most, or so he believes, his pride is easily hurt yet. Indeed, he and Amory would have been the best of friends; true mirrors of the other. She remineses of the days she still saw Walt Whitman. It is times like these she wishes he was still here.