when lust is dead,
and routine pollutes the head,
lonely is your heart,
unused is your bed.
Embark on a romance with words
toy and tease, search and squeeze,
each letter till
A perfect body presents itself,
upon the page,
something special,
created out of poetic rage.
When the heart cries out for love,
remember the words from above,
open the wounds,
and let the weepy words,
splash out onto the welcome white.
When the mind searches for
soft sweet memories in the sleepy night,
then my friends it time to write.
Unlike brief sexual gratification,
a writers satisfaction,
does not need compliments to appease.
unlike human bodies,
the body of a poem,
does not need cosmetics
to stir the hearts of those who,
compose, and view.
yet long into this cold rainy night,
it is not words i need its you.
My words did escape me as I read the trueness in this write. Poetry is my escape, but after the write we have our fellow poets to write us back. Immortial words but a lonely soul.The body of a poem doesnot need cosmetic... brillant line. Regards Patricia
Vincey, meet me outside Barking clock about 7 o'clock tonight? : -) I'm with Mr Chatterjee on his summary: yes, poetry does provide release and satisfaction, but ultimately, it's no substitute for love. Squeezing your hand, Gina.
This poem seems to be written with great honesty and sincerity and that is what I like the most about it and I certainly agree with these lines in particular. The body of a poem, does not need cosmetics to stir the hearts of those who, compose, and view. yet long into this cold rainy night, it is not words i need its you.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Simply lovely. And finely put together.