Glance

So this is my first submission that I felt I actually like enough to want to share. Thanks in advance for any viewing/critiquing.

That stuff with which he wrote upon the wall,
Yes, that darkness, there wrought upon the wall,
In perpetual permanence on pliable plank.
In viable verse that vies for the attention of lip and tongue,
Simp and sprung on the word like a hopeless romantic on his pride and prize, the woman.
Submit to her kind words and the delicacy of her caress,
Arrest your carnal love and admiration before inspiration drives you to twist and weave,
That stuff with which I write upon this wall.
Yes, that darkness, were it not the color of midnight, it might be mistaken for blood,
And I, the twisted mind who cuts himself apart just so that I might share my life with you.
What am I, without the wall and ink to paint my picture?
Without it, is there a story to my face,
To my being? Is there a history when we knock shoulders on the street,
And in the glance of an eye, you forget to blink.
And within my own you see my story.
A history? Perhaps a future untold.
But where one story begins, this one ends there,
Because you thought it improper to ask why the wanting, mysterious stare?
But you might not want the answer, too afraid of what you don't know.
Or do you? I deem it inconceivable that you could judge me now, just by the bounce in my step and the tone of my voice.
Or maybe it's the way I dress or the attractiveness of my face,
But no, you're not so transparent, I could tell from your glance.
Yet you're afraid to give in, and submit yourself to the public as I readily submitted to you.
Why so easy, you say? What have I to fear?
The wrath of the people, the society of the pretty, the rich, and the famous?
What do I have to fear of the petty, the false, and the faceless?
But take this with but a grain of salt, you have my word, you're not at fault.
To each their own deity, be it a god of false wealth and skin deep wonders,
But then I wonder, do you follow the pursuit of right where others have gone wrong?
Do you look back on the masses, are you separate from the endless throng,
Of people who do not submit to inspiration, and drop the pen before they have even begun to write their own history,
And revel in her kind words and the delicacy of her caress.
And yes, I confess, in me there is a hopeless romantic
Hoping that you also believe that, in life, there's a chance,
That when I looked at you, and you to me, it was more than just a glance.

Author's Note

I'm curious as to how well it reads. Let me know! Young writer needs help!