Matthew English Poems

Can I kiss you on the lips
Can I feel you from the hips.
Can I peel off all your clothes
Can I touch you from your head to your toes.
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As you disappear into the distance I can’t help but close my eyes,
as you dissipate into the wind, the same current that blows the tears from my face
I reach into the distance; that grows larger every second that goes by,
evaporating into the mist that clouds over our fate.
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Is gender the question,
For what does it matter?
To love is of spirit and mind, not
of petty labels set by the creator
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To Alison,

You are the love of my life, my secret, my obsession. Without you in my life, I have nothing. What is there to life without you?
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The thought of you not talking to me, as if all emotion is drained from my heart, my mind.
Am i selfish? probably. Selfless? probably. My mind is not quick to thought when i speak sometimes. As a consequence i say/share what i should not with you- so instead you get angry, upset.
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Fragility is;
the smash of a glass,
a fallen vase,
the collision of two cars,
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To my dearest Cathie,
why do i write? for what purpose is this writing to you? i write before i’ve even decided whether i’ll even send it to you. Maybe this is just like a diary entry; where i can store all my emotions and feelings. Maybe it makes this all so much more real; or just amplifies the torment i feel every living day i can’t be with you because I’m scared and well, because you’re too good for me.
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In life i just want to make people happy, not because they’re upset with me, just want everyone to be happy- that’s how everyone should be.. just to believe there is someone there for them, always, through thick and thin to care and belief that they’re beautiful inside and out. Everyone possesses beauty, beauty of a unique mind and soul; unique features and perks- even if they can’t see them themselves.
But, this is a paradox.
What is my real reason for doing this.
Am i happy? … i should be.
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I have not the lover, nor the desire,
though i do exchange love with another.
Love that does not leave me infatuated or entrapped,
but much the opposite.
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I write, but what does it mean that
I write? Blot the page with feelings,
True or untrue.
You may ask of what purpose these
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