[sigh]
You know, if poetry worked I would have gotten laid a lot more in college.

That's the problem: most women seem to like the idea of someone writing them poetry, but in execution they have trouble handling it. Something always goes wrong. Their reaction to a real, live poet is not what theory would seem to predict. (I won't mention the word 'stalker' here, but it has come up before in conversation.) (No, I'm not going to elaborate.) I don't bother with poetry anymore. Oh, I still write the damn stuff-- even though I know it won't work-- I just don't do anything with it.

but now I suppose I can use it as filler.


Sonnet 17, for P.


I have no claim to you, and this I know.
I only have the hope that will not leave.
Perhaps I’ve let myself get drunk on hope.
I’ve kept the doubts at bay. I’m self-deceived.

But if your heart is not so badly burned,
And if you want to take another risk,
Remember this poor fool, who once was spurned,
I might still offer up the chance you missed.

I offer love. I give you all I am:
My heart, my life, my thought, my soul, my touch;
I give it all, just reach and take my hand.
But still you pause. My all is not enough.

Your mind is set, the course of action laid.
And this poor poet soon must leave the stage.


[maudlin, self-serving garbage. but still I write the stuff. can't help it. must be something wrong with the way my brain is wired.]