Poet’s Cry

i wish i were that person
who writes those beautiful poems

those line that tell of passion
that tell of tears and
tragedy
the tale of broken parasols
and frogs that croak in tune
and lives that end in blood and kisses
and the star that loved the moon

those rhymes that make love so alluring
so captivating
exhilariating
worth-the-waiting
excruciating

pain

as flames that flicker from the eyes of unknown strangers
turn her livid wishes
burning into ashes
and spread like wildfire into the mist of mystery

until the sky falls down the mountains
or her cry-calls turn to fountains
the poet keeps on writing
until her fingers bleed
but the stories that she makes
will spin themselves to nothingness

for as her pencil drops into the abyss
she’ll write about a thousand years of kisses

and her tears will fill oblivion
until it’ll overflow
for she has never
never felt the flame that burns the lips
and her lips will never know…

…the passion
…the tears
…the touch of a loving hand
that makes her poem the dreamer’s promised land

and so i wish i were that person
who writes those beautiful poems
‘coz at least she can dream of love

in a land not ruined by reality
she can dwell forever in naivete
and let love remain in her poetry

as it should be.