(no subject)

Venom

Love poisons me, but the harsh pangs I feel
are safely measured, a non-fatal dose.
It will not break my heart, just bring me close
To mortal passion. If I seem to steal

Affection, and give little in return-
a touch, a kiss perhaps – and never hold
you tight with lust, it's partly that I'm old
and you are far too young. In truth, I burn

but not, alas, for you. Each verse I write
Sears like the icy splinter in my heart
Yet leaves no mark on skin. My traitor art
is cold to you, but keeps me warm at night.

Each verse of love I speak burns in my throat
- sharp poison, and its only antidote.

(no subject)

Realism

Perhaps your love's a folly in my head.
Some words you meant in kindness, or a glance
you meant for someone else. This whole romance
scraps of emotion misinterpreted.

And my determination to be chaste
and walk away from offers never made
mere lust with self-importance overlaid,
no grand emotion. Shabby tawdry waste.

But still transfigured by a word or phrase
that you inspired. None of us ever choose
which random person will become a Muse.
Each poet knows that all the words she says

are lies, since every girl we hope to screw
will get a sonnet, or if lucky, two.