I had so much motivation
Only fifteen minutes past.
But now, I've found, my lethargy,
Is truly what shall last.

To be a burden is a terrible waste.
All of that time spent perfecting the art
Of being a pain,
A strain.
Only to learn that the problem
Is in being the problem,
In being the extra load on his back.
Yes, to be a burden is a terrible waste, indeed,
Of a perfectly fine little life.

I love you like the summer loves the sun,
Like the sand loves the sweet waves
And the wind loves the sky.
I love you as the timid rose loves
The morning dew– thankful and
Longing.

Last night, as the rain came down, I thought a thought of you and me:
Of sitting by the fireside, and drinking cups of homemade tea.
Cause you were happy, I was sad, like all the days we never had
Where you would smile and make me glad, but none of that has happened yet.

I’ve only ever dreamt.
Never learned, never spent
The time.
And that was my mistake.      

Tomorrow, if the rain comes down, I’ll sit and think of what’s to be.
I’ll draw my feelings, read the news, and keep a record of my dreams.
Cause I’ve been thinking all the time, that you are yours and I am mine,
Or we could switch and that’d be fine. But I could never lead the line.

I’ve only ever heard.
Never seen, never learned
The way.
And that was my mistake.

Here I sit still, awaiting the answer,
Awaiting this testament,
Awaiting my retreat.
For soon will these
Closed doors be locked and unopened,
Or pushed to let light in, unshut and unsheathed.

A poor fool am I, who sits on her hands.
Talking in melodies, but ne’er across the land.
Whose voice is a weapon, but only in mind:
In soul, but not earth,
In heart, but not time.

The people have chosen, we stand in defeat.
No triumph,
Their triumph,
Inequality: not deceased.
We’re Animals, savages- away from the fields;
Asleep;
Unmoving;
No weapons to weild.

In silence, pure silence, I seek my revenge.
I seek out their vengeance, But only with eyes.
My mouth is tucked inward, held fast at the henge.
No words will escape me,
Nor actions,
Nor lies.

My heart is not true, so they say, so
I trust.
But my mind does not falter,
I know what is just.

For am I a lost cause?
I know it, I’ve seen it,
I’m not even true in my mind.
But Hope is a strong friend, an outcast as I am:
An outcast that oft leaves me blind.

And now I sit still, awaiting an answer,
Awaiting this testament
Awaiting my retreat.
My heart is a closed door, awaits to be opened.
Pushed to let light in, unshut and unsheathed.

Here I sit my hands, on top of colorless perfection,
Black overlapping white in sweet embrace.
My fingers brush the cold, the joyful keys of cool percection,
And I’m transported to a heightened place.

As music fills my ears and soul, my colorless friend hears me,
She reacts gently to each playful pluck.
Her body shudders slightly as my hands begin to lead me,
Her voice is soft, I hear my deepened luck.

I listen in this throne as all the colors drain to darkness,
And fair white light seeps through to quicken breaths.
But my subtle hands still find her body, reaching through the darkness,
My sprinting heartbeat, running fast from death.

Her voice grows louder, fuller, as my arms float left and right,
Her ivory keys sing truths of love and fear.
I listen as my voice conjoins with hers, the pure and righteous,
We sing and play in unison through tears.

Then friend and lover, secretly, through open-minded cunning,
Erupts in pleasure, graceful and with life.
Then silence follows, beautifully, and tinged with lifeless cunning,
I drink it in, with gray lines in my eyes.

My love, my life, lays careful as her body, soft, returns.
My fingers- back to stroke her playful keys.
She gratefully accepts my hands, I know her heart returns.
I feel her smiling joyfully at me.

And music coarses through my veins, and coarses through her body,
Our love affair concealed by our desires.

I've never penned a perfect poem,
Never happy with results.
For every one is uninspired,
Always with some gaping fault.

But here I've set to work to write
(Or type, as poets seldom should)
The poem I have never written,
Never cared, or never could.

But oh! Alas! My pen has written
All the way to stanza three,
And nowhere in those careful couplets
Have I declared my care for thee!

It goes without my saying so
That I'm no master with a pen,
But even those with lesser tools
Can write, and tie their thoughts within.

But I have neither told you how
Your presence gives me will to smile,
Or how, with you, I've never spent
A second that was not worthwhile.

But oh! Alas! These simple words
Are maybe badly cut and bruised,
But woven through them, by my pen,
Is all the care I have for you.