The Flowery Complexities of Infatuation

I used to write poems: melancholy poems, bitter poems, but never anything jovial, no sinuous words of infatuation. I have tried to capture the fleetingly pervasive phrases in my brain as they dribble down in sap onto my college-ruled notebook, but to no avail. I am not pessimistic, although it seems that my writing is. I find it difficult to recapitulate the positive feelings that are supposed to come with love without having to swallow the bile that rises in my throat from the sickly sweetness. I do not negate the existence of the sensation, I simply prefer a more succinct way to go about emotions; ones that do not confuse or complicate. Music is the most complex thing that I can handle in terms of passion, but that probably has to do with the combination of melodical sensations and the use of lyrical expression. I often use songs to speak for me. How many other ways are there to express affection, I wonder. Do they sit ready to waylay my senses if I ever become bold enough to search for them? I am not an apiarist of honeysuckle words, I merely wish to harvest the nectar of sacchariferous speech so that I may, one day, use it to love.