2010’s Peter Pan
The man that’s a boy, who turns me into a little girl,
He has the hands of a man, with the soul of a man,
But the laughter of a boy~ that tickles me,
My laughter,
My soul,
This boy that’s a man,
Chokes my heart up into my throat,
And scutules back down into my stomac,
With a swiftly tempo’d rhythm.
The mans that’s a boy
That almost turns this cynic woman
Into a little girl
With the sensibilities of a naive romantic
When I indulge in him…
Seems to be succeeding,
At suffocating those last embers
Left from the blazing Notions devoid of hope
That brimmed the burn for 26 years
Of My laughless, tickleless, smirking Soul...
It’s oxymoronic? And thus untrue?
A boy can’t be a man, a woman a little girl
Or do we defy normality
To revel in the pleasure,
That could exist
In another... Reality
No. I have hidden in alter realities long enough,
Now I’ll indulging the contrived cliché that it’s never to late,
So I left Peter Pan in Never Never Land,
Simply a storybook that seemed great.
How ironic, or true to my nature;
Being oxymoronic,
That I would find my fairytale man,
Right here, without a plan now on my land
And he just happens to exist...
In THIS reality,
That is Mine, Yours, and the Who ever wants it,
Purified from fictions trickery,
An allowed treachery,
That once always had its hold on me.
Deplorably, whom am I kidding?
Peter Pans fable will always have a lingering hold on me.
Luckily for me not so unpardonably,
This loitering end with weighted eyelids,
The effortless fall to my pillow,
My face smartingly teder, left with a pleasant aching,
Pure ramification of all the prolonged smiles and bouts of laughter,
Uncontrolled from fits
That haile down on me, as I'm regailed
against my will, but only resisting because of this unfimiliar provacation
Some kind I've never had to forture of taking
This is a woman's man,
Absant of the of child’s play enchantment…
The expostion of any lurcking
All I taste is a thimble, As you face me
Want to attach, that hiding place so nimble
No longer, not the way this pusle attracts
Needle and thread?
Hell no, I will reap what you can't no longer sew
Shadowless
Because fuck fairy dust!
As I sink into the onslaught of Night
That fills my slumber
With the pleasantries that design
These neverever-land of dreams
Where now you resign your flight.
Wow, lucky guy and very powerful imagery
ReplyDeletethank u for the kind words =)... i wish i was a better poet at times, so sincerely, they mean much to me to hear =)
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