Simplistic Complexities--*

It was simple then, wasn’t it?
Fires have never been extinguished so quickly
And when your fingertips met my eyelids
The sudden movement caused earthquakes in my knees
You danced sweetly as we became musically
Inclined to each others mind
Never "Lament Over Love"
You spun me on your pointer finger
Till your laughter became a blur

Simplistically speaking, simplicity was peaking
Leaking simple stanza’s to make poetry look easy

The words rested freely, and I twisted them around
My dark hair strands, I wrote you [in pen] on blank pages
And you had several faces
But when it came time to fall in love
I couldn’t even erase it.

For me, love has always been prettier on paper
The permanence of the ink laced through
Thick veins of thoughts that never got named
Which, is probably the reason why love in
Reality never fails to taper.

I’ve become smitten by characters I’ve written
To the point that I’ve begun to compare my true love
To those I’ve created and sadly get upset
When his metaphors don’t get me elated

So an apology is belated I suppose; I’ve composed
To many love sonnets and my infatuation with romance
Has led me to no where
Alone, I stand cold with nothing to show but a few
Poems and maybe a couple verses
Straddling the idea that love can be drawn
From a hat full of abstract words, slowing putting them
Together to create the perfect ending
Rearranging them to make it sound better,
I’ve managed to fall in love with words instead of him.

Possibly trying to change him into the poems I wrote secretly
Hoping that the perfect lines can somehow transcribe themselves
Onto his tongue, so when he speaks I can hear the love
I slaved over for almost 2 full moons.

-Sigh-

I was truly hoping to rant about simplicity in this scribe
But this has indeed turned into another tale about
My desperation to be adored; nothing less nothing more
Again, failing at my mission to leave
Passion in my notebooks and carry on without it
Wishing I could have stuck with simplicity instead
Of demanding complexity
It is what I have become accustomed to.
Comfortably numb to the harsh jabs at my heart strings
I was never the muse.
Used to being refused of the love I so passionately wrote about.

But, I blame myself for the heartache, for I gave my heart away
The first time I read Hughes, Bishop, and Dickenson
So in all honestly it really should be surprising that I am slightly
Disappointed when it comes to love
Because Im used to being embellished by artists who shape my existence
I now know that you will never compare to, “Jukebox Love Song”, and
It is unfair of me to expect you to recite something so sweet into me
As my Langston once did.

It was simple then, wasn’t it?
There was no heartbreak in reading a good poem and
That was enough to keep me content.

*huge THANK YOU to those who took the time to read this piece. =]

Love. Tianamonique.