The Unloved Poem

Have you ever heard a lover making up to his sweetheart who is feeling neglected? Better still, have you heard a Poet speak to his Poem that's feeling the same? Who or what can tell apart , the feelings of an impassioned lover from those of a cognisant writer? Read on and see if you can tell the difference.


The way you look at me,
as blank as verse could be,
your eyes are far from truth,
your makeup lies to me!
You brought out all your zing,
in the form of laboured verse
(I couldn't feel a thing:
your touch was cold and terse)
You couldn't hide away
-no matter how you tried -
the starkness of the gray
that hid in black and white.
I didn't think I'd   live,
to bear this loss of touch;
I knew I didn't give,
my love 'n' care as much!
I should've writ you less,
I should've heard you more,
I should've held you close
when you'd walked in through the door;
I shouldn't have judged you so
for no reason and no rhyme,
I could've let you in
my heart from time to time...
It's not your fault, my love,
that meaning plays truant;
when muse and writer fight,
the poem's most defunct!
I now vow to infuse,
some colour in those cheeks -
with scintillating strokes
on all your curves and peaks;
I know I have to work;
on feeling you inside me,
on making love to thoughts,
you have when you're beside me...
Now ne'er again my love,
will y' look like hoary rime
I'll bathe you in such ether,
you'll be my poem sublime!