I write what I feel, as we all do.
Relax! The poem was inspired by the poor standed of love poems at another web site.
I want your gravel stained words to growl-
when others would roll over for criticism.
I want nicotine stained lines and an ashtray for a title.
I want exuberance. I want love stapled to the page.
I want to be the subject, the speaker and society's righteous whip.
I want to hear your heart screaming when it's tied to a rack.
And believe me, when I say, I'll be your harshest critic.
So don't give me the academic rights to your soul
or a lone, college diary of love.
And I don't want to hear there was ever a chance.
In the world of selfish behaviour there's never a real chance.
So exercise your pen and make my chest muscle ache.
Let me trek through the waste to discover a promised land.
And it's important to note, the thesis of who said what,
that I want the misunderstanding, the loss, the jealousy and the spite.
So yes,_ give me them, give me your best shot,
give me a fix, an instant high, a two minute euphoria,
inject your sorrows and archaic charm, if you must,
but give me true life and words to die for.
And when all is said and done, when love,
drunk on the toxicity of life, takes a tumble,
I want to drop the book like a blooded knife
and bleat like the sacrificial lamb.
Amore! Give me the love!
But give me the raw and gut of it all.
Poetry by Ulysses
Read 844 times
Written on 2005-06-12 at 02:17
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Relax! The poem was inspired by the poor standed of love poems at another web site.
To those who would write love poems
I want to hear the mastiff in your voice.I want your gravel stained words to growl-
when others would roll over for criticism.
I want nicotine stained lines and an ashtray for a title.
I want exuberance. I want love stapled to the page.
I want to be the subject, the speaker and society's righteous whip.
I want to hear your heart screaming when it's tied to a rack.
And believe me, when I say, I'll be your harshest critic.
So don't give me the academic rights to your soul
or a lone, college diary of love.
And I don't want to hear there was ever a chance.
In the world of selfish behaviour there's never a real chance.
So exercise your pen and make my chest muscle ache.
Let me trek through the waste to discover a promised land.
And it's important to note, the thesis of who said what,
that I want the misunderstanding, the loss, the jealousy and the spite.
So yes,_ give me them, give me your best shot,
give me a fix, an instant high, a two minute euphoria,
inject your sorrows and archaic charm, if you must,
but give me true life and words to die for.
And when all is said and done, when love,
drunk on the toxicity of life, takes a tumble,
I want to drop the book like a blooded knife
and bleat like the sacrificial lamb.
Amore! Give me the love!
But give me the raw and gut of it all.
Poetry by Ulysses
Read 844 times
Written on 2005-06-12 at 02:17
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text|
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