T’was the month of hearts, and the cards were all aligned,
I couldn’t have told anyone else a better line.
I spoke so many rhymes that never really worked,
Some metaphors of feelings that always went berserk.
I couldn’t have brought a more lavish scene to life,
Except for the powers that come with the words I write.
Although the words written were not of the ordinary,
She found it blunt and plain and it never caught her fancy.
So I paused and asked her, “What’s wrong with it, my love?”
She replied, “Your love? That’s the thing the entire poem’s barren of.”
I crumpled the page and walked away; my hours of life were wasted,
Though she was right, when I realized it, years later into new relationships,
My verse was odd and always slurred; I stumbled on my steps,
My stanzas were somehow burned by the lack of intellect,
My lines were simply drawn on paper, with crayons and a pencil,
My words were so absurd and random that I don’t even understand, still,
Still I wrote those lines for her, a drumbeat to the music,
Still I wrote those lines for her, an ornament for her tunic,
Still I wrote those lines for her, a human discovering the world,
Still I wrote those lines for her, because she filled my world.
I gave up on hope years ago, and my tear soaked bed could prove it,
Moist to this day, and scarred, and stained, with the ornaments of her tunic.
The ashes that were left from a flame that once burned the forests down,
Nothing could stop the fire’s display but the rain that made it drown.
Not one night more than 10 years ago, I’d wrote those lines for her,
Not one night more than 10 years ago, she was the water of this world.
Not one night more than 10 years ago, I was the fire that burned,
And not one night more than 10 years ago, our love spawned tides that turned.
So on this day on the month of hearts, I recall every detail,
Every shout, every scream, every sentence and every wail,
That I offered to my bed that night,
And on this day on the month of hearts, I still continuously write.