the poet

and his love

she is a poem

and I am her writer

I am a poet

she brings me laughter

I think as I ink a paper-thin kiss

on the last letter,

only a scum can wish

for anything more than this bliss

the words were romantic

combinations were horrific

I made monsters out of it

and contained them in my lyrics

I wrote phrases like the morning rain

and as I waited for a reply

I ended stanzas with a goodbye

as I gave her all of my pain

her name would seem to be overused

but I wouldn’t replace it with another tune

fitting as the perfect groove,

the perfect rhyme

a perfect syllable for this melody of mine

a poet loves making his poems

each phrase being a piece of his puzzle

but a piece of him, he gave to them too

from the eyes to the feet

forming another heart without any holes

all coming from one and the same soul