The Poet

There is passion behind every word you speak,

Words are not minced, touches the same,

No calculation or hesitation,

Just you.

Yet you are not concise by any means,

Baby, you’re a mix of mixed signals and word play.

I’d rather be your Annabel Lee.

Put me on a pedestal beside you,

Hold my hand as I rise to meet

Those piercing eyes that seem to have seen

Everything in the world and yet nothing at all.

Innocence in knowing your convictions,

Unsure as the piano keys you miss,

And as sure as dawn to day,

You’re a beautiful contradiction 

And I love it paradoxically.