This Is How He Makes Me Feel.

I've just sat up and devised this poem because I was so previously upset with the last blog. For your viewing pleasure. It's called: The Deadliest Virus Known to Man.



It starts as a cell, as it enters the stream,

A brief passing thought, a hazy daydream.

No hint of suspicion, not even a breath,

Of evil intention, the cause of a death.

Upward it flows, as if it’s by choice,

For it is the reason, that I hear your voice.

Goodbye, you tells me, when you see that I’m dying,

You talk with your eyes, though I know they are lying,

You close up your mouth, as you speak with your heart,

Your soul, the technique, your lying an art.

That you paint with my tears, perfecting your stroke,

Using my fears, while it’s making me choke.

But you are no artist, a doctor instead,

And I have a fever, your hand on my head.

You listen real slow, with a moment to pause,

But you’ll never know, that you are the cause,

The root of my illness, my darkness, my plague,

That’s killing me slowly, and making me beg.

I tell you my problems, as it flows in your ear,

But you cannot listen, if you cannot hear.

Away from your voice, a hasty retreat,

And into the heart being very discreet,

The cell makes it home, on destruction it’s bent,

To multiply, full of malicious intent.

They stack on each other till tissues are made,

To block out your heart, make your character fade.

So you tell me goodbye, as you walk out the door,

And I open my mouth, to say something more.

But my throat’s a cocoon,

And as hard as I tried,

But you are the moon,

And my voice is the tide.

It rolls in and I laugh when I see your face,

It rolls out, and I’d die to have your embrace,

To them you are both their oyster, their pearl,

But to me you are simply the entire world,

All wrapped up in one, a beautiful mesh,

Encased in one body, just one suit of flesh,

All mine, this body would to but me belong,

A beautiful treasure, and my favorite song.

To sing, and to play, in all different keys,

A sexual orchestra of harmonies.

But a virus builds inside of you,

That makes you act the way you do.

And the cells that build inside of me,

Create a lock, but you’re the key.

But because we live two different lives,

Time cuts us like a rack of knives.

And slits my throat so I can’t speak,

And steals my strength, and makes me weak.

And as I lay here dying on the floor,

You don’t even know, and you close the door.

And light a smoke, so you can forget,

But to me, you are my cigarette.

And when we die, they’ll need an answer,

So to look at you, they’ll claim lung cancer.

But they don’t know that I died too,

Of the same disease, that also claimed you.

Looking down from up above,

I died of the cancer caused by love.