Poet Introduction I am a politics philosophy and economics student living in London, i am 25 years old and i love the power of words, using them to try and make people think and not just shock an audience, more than this, I am an absolute romantic.
Mary had a little lamb she also had a bear... I often saw her little lamb but nary saw her bare... Perhaps if she'd of let me in and not just slammed the door... Perhaps I'd not find myself so crumpled on the floor... Perhaps if i'd have thought about maybe wearing cloths.. Perhaps I should have pulled back quicker before the fucker closed...
I love you like summer nights when blue bells sway in pale moon light and the last of the song birds quiet to sleep as the day starts early and ends later each week so that less hours pass from when we part to when we meet
Go to sleep, and let the moon but kiss your face as you make the stars all jealous, for the light of it's embrace. Tomorrow, the world will be your oyster and the sun shall light your way just to show that in moons kiss, its light, came from other plains. Good night.
rose's can be blue, violet, shades of purple my love may overwhelm me but your love keeps me stable sleep may come so easy, in beds hard as nails pillows may need plumping but of are love they will write tails
Were I my love for thee, boundless would my being be in veneration of what has and will continue to be in hopeful precognition I decry, though I laugh as this is my reality limitless insanity if crazy is my love for thee
I love you, I want you, I need you, My wish? To see you, to hold you, to steal a kiss.
One-hundred and twenty-one days or seventeen weeks Thousands of minuets smiling hundreds of rosy cheeks One goal paramount, to see eight further months pass by So that after a year’s total I shall know, not a second was...
A short little rhyme to end my time today my thoughts unclear, your voice so near in sleeps sweet lullaby to dreams I go, my head hung low on the pillow were you once lay I say this rhyme to pass the time and see you in tonight’s bouquet sweet the sound a cricket mound, through window left ajar towards which, the mind wonders, with thoughts of ventures a far until your arms are not a yonder, your caress my last hurrah.
The last of a good thing as all poets rhyme but only some of us sing thinking about the intent and sound of passing crowds but know one will stop to hear the words that won’t come out so standing aloud I point you out and praise be that what you see is me is my love of thee in all of its entirety but woes’ me as you look back, unknowingly.
The last of a good thing, my thoughts cut short a new born rose torn at the stork for what I wished for you to portray, was the knowing of my silent symphony.