the dilemma of the romantic poet

i lay here in my lover’s bed, and i am conscious of her naked skin against mine. it reminds me of this new happiness. it is now that i realise.

i have written of love, and written again about love. i will write more and more about love and while flowers may blossom from the screen, sun shine from the page, and melodies whisper sweet everythings when your eyes close, smile widens and breath sighs, i have still failed. i fail for the reason that all romantic poets fail.

language fails love.
words fail love.
writing any line of any poem for a thousand forevers and a life time of trying, will fall short of describing love. it is this emotion that drives me, yet i cannot write of love, for it is unreachable except to feel it.

i lay here in my lover’s bed and i tell her. she cries, we kiss, and we know. this is the dilemma of the romantic poet.



a peach is how life should be

best eaten ripe
devoured with gusto
shared with a lover
satisfying in every way

i want another one please