cubistpoet

First draft. Feel free to bash.

I want you,
and not in that dog and chain
leashing your life and your brain
kind of way.

I want you,
and not in that fucking you raw
until the morning light and then hopping the next
out-of-town-bound train
kind of way.

I want you,
and not in that marble and bronze
statued girlfried hanging
on my wall of fame
kind of way.

I want you,
and not in that hyper-obsessive
lovey-dovey doey-eyed Bambi
ignore all your pain
kind of way.

I love the way that you make me feel like
a human being
rather than some souless machine.

I love the way that you can read between the lines
of my countless soliloquies before they begin,
but still make me ride them out to the end.

I love the way that you ramble endlessly
without a single drop of remorse
on anything that obstructs the course
of that spark of passion that drives you forth.

That spark of passion that drives us all forth.

Because as much as I'd like to say this poem is about some beautiful girl
It's really about all the poets in this beautiful world.

I want to drink in their wisdom, their lives, their fears, thier tears.
I want to soak in their passion, their fury, their hearts, their souls.

I want to thank them for inspiring me to live again,
rather than sitting in pity as life's constant critic.