Love is the feeling in ones stomach of fluttering,
The butterflies that envelop the pit.
The heavy stuck rock in the bottom of ones throat.
Stubborn as a jackass's retarded growth stunted son.
The muscles of ones mouths moving of there own accord,
As they look like a buffoon trying to strike a match of laughter.
The increased pace of a softened heart,
Getting the blood of a drunken bastards fighting while still as a statue.
The genius's nervous unrestrained sweat.
Around women as that of an old greasy rag.
Making it yet the more impossible to hold a dozen roses,
Made all the more beautiful by the drink of thy shaking hands.
Legs turning to that of a parfait in stature,
Feet and hands as cold as ice and numb as thy jelly legs.
A sensation of sharpness electric in feeling within there hands,
Uncontrollable writhing from finger to toe.
The power of the passion of which ones strength has come,
Of the simple undeniable instinct and will to make their’s.
Trying to shake predictions of destruction from the soul,
The horrible feeling of untidiness, ugliness, and bad breath.
The prickly hair on thee skin stands like a thousand sharp needles,
Trying to replenish the heat to thee outside of thee chilled body.
Goosebumps crawling upon thy skin,
Making to chill almost relaxing to the touch.
The half tense half relaxed posture putting thee into an awkward state,
The sweat giving a true feeling of being able to slide out of there skin.
Clothes fancy getting drenched clinging to there skin,
Once of great design ruined by the salt water of there skin excretes.
Slowly sneaking up wishing you wrote a fine letter instead,
Hoping thee doesn't look up into thy eyes or laugh.
Clearing the lump in your throat ask thee, 'Will you go out with me? '
Hoping the other shares thy feelings and says thy heart yearning, 'Yes! '
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem