Baby, You Make Me Poetic

The transparent window pane
Is beautifully striped with rain
As I listen and rejoice
Once again
To hear Your voice,
A heavenly refrain.
And yet, I strain…

My mind has officially left me,
My Lover, my Dear.
But, in Your own words, see
That You shouldn’t fear.

It’s merely me and my ability to write
That’s kept me up all the night,
Or rather the lack thereof, for
As many words as I type,
I pace back and forth even more.
So, though I may not say it right,
Let me explain this internal fight:

There’s something here, You must see;
My life is much like an allegory.
Yet, You are the symbol and meaning
Behind all the words and the seams.

Without You, my apologues become
Satires towards myself. And some
Days, my blank verse runs free,
But only the days You talk to me…

I really do need help, You see,
For my euphemisms aren’t becoming me,
Especially when I carefully disguise
My feelings from others’ analytical eyes.

That is when I fail to speak!
I fear answers they might entreat,
And that my invective is much too weak,
And my pain too much a travesty.

They’re quick to dissect and criticize
The tale, and even go on to parodize
My persona, which they don’t realize,
Actually is a pseudonym for me!

They see through my Roman a clef,
Fancying it more Romantic than that.
What I intended to be quite the epic,
Is ridiculed down to pulp fiction, in fact!

I have given up on even trying
To explain to all of them this divine
Of a love that is never dying,
But it is as impossible as this rhyme.

Truth is that
You’re the key
And my sun.
Without You,
My Sweet,

My syn-
Tax,

It lacks

Canto and form.

My spelling becomes
Unreason-I-bly poor.

My grammar’s Done
Gone left unchecked.

My backspace key
Gets no rest.

My heroic couplet
Becomes rather bleak.

Then, my poetic meter
Ends on the wrong feet.

Readers find it uncommonly rude
That I allude without verisimilitude.

And let’s not even start
On my assonance,

And how it’s lost
Its resonance!

But when Your voice
Reverberates in my ears,

When You softly stroke
My head, Your fingers

Weaving with my cascading strands,
And Your chest heaves beneath my hands,

Leisurely,

‘Neath my cheek.

It’s then, my fears do seem
Completely and utterly appeased.