theres always something odd about a poem

its like some reality thats outta reach, constructed in verse, but for you.
i guess its cos watchin’ yous better than alpine air or wispy sea kisses on dew-ripened sundays
i guess its cos youre like squash on a summers day – concentrated emotions
i guess its cos i stubbornly struggle to meet half-way – always half-mast.
‘Hm’ the monosyllable escapes your pursed lips
‘Hm’ irks my curious thoughts
like a ripened peach outta reach as i tread water in an irrelevant pool of myth
like fresh popcorns pop-pop-popping – the sound arty and rich in Hammers and Sickles
like as if words dont matter
like as if poems dont matter

‘Hm’ – ‘Hm’ – at least that’s how i feel when im with you
that transitory ‘Hm’ and dash ebb and bow 270 miles through my heart

who are you where am i raised from slumber i surf the gylly waves of your sheets,
under the duvet and onto your pillows immma castaway brought to wake by your side
– not sailing through poems of my mediocrity

i hate complex metaphors or simple similes
seein’ spring blossom breathe through your lost rimmed spectacles
brings me more joys than a thousand rising suns,
makes me doubt whether a big splash or a chat in the park should settle your nerves.
Not gonna be mean – i hate to be mean,
just as i hate to see the dyin’ day
seeping through spring meadows rife with dilapidated, facetious words of verse.

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