She said:
“You are on a roll!”
To which I responded
(in a tone rather droll):
“I’d rather be on you.
or you on me.
Like peanut butter with jam.
Like fresh bread and honey.
Like warm milk and white bread
fresh from the oven
having you spread
on me is just good lovin’!”
When I’ve lived so long gluten-free,
being on a roll sounds mighty tasty.
You are confused.
Sometimes you confuse me.
but I’m always enthused
by how you muse
and amuse me.
You, though you’re confused/
and confusing, always are/
my Muse, amusing.
When I first
nursed
a desire
to stand near
her radiance
and fire,
there was no
fear.
But then
I slammed
again
and again
into force fields;
walls
so tall
I had to yield
or go through.
That’s what I chose
to do,
knowing that the result
would let me exult
and exalt
myself
and her.
At last,
when the probe
burst through,
her radiance showed
back,
blinding my view.
So strong, so overwhelming
I couldn’t see anything
but what was in front of me.
I fear
I feared.
Insecurity
does not endear,
nor gain pity
from the pretty.
She quickly closed up,
repaired the breach.
Shields up!
She withdrew out of reach.
So I was left, again,
with keyboard instead of pen,
to tap, tap, tap away at the wall;
just to gain entry. Not make it fall.
For it’s only when she, herself, will yield
that her wall raising will be healed.
She, shimmering, stands.
Magnifying her hair’s shine,
the forcefield guards her.
Leaving my bloodstains /
on the mortar of your walls/
is not what you want.
She’s not into you./
You know when she trips, yet sends/
no beach toes photos.
Unreasonable:/
It means to go way beyond/
normal, to greatness.
I’m dying again.
Like I did before. This time,/
inaction kills me.
If I look real good,/
and no one is there to care,/
is it a “macht’s nichts”?