They say confessional poetry is repressed sexuality, I believe it don’t you?
I’m a man who puts sanctions on his mind, and chains around my soul, wall's surrounding my own heart.
It has been so long since my bare skin has felt the bare skin of a girl, so long, that I do not want to even begin to imagine when,
Was the last time I locked lips with a girl, held her hand, or stroked her willing hair with my eager hands,
Oh how long it has been.
I’m an idealistic guy who chooses to shut myself into this sanctuary, my own isolation.
A man who tortures his own heart, with a soul that screams and a mind that is close to falling apart.
Infected by rumination.
Imagination suffocated by expectation.
Lofty goals and desperate attempts to achieve some jaded sense of moral fulfillment.
Any meager milestone that will put this ambition to rest, motivated by stress, obligations, and promises best left repressed.
So hopeful a dreamer who, like a young child I reach to the sky, stand tall for a little while then take an all too familiar slide into depression,
A self-created, self-directed, self-manufactured tragedy.
But self-determined to feed this wild ambition, this reservoir of fire.
An energy so shockingly, so alarmingly evident in everything I do, so competitive, so confrontational, so controversial, all I want is to be conversational.
I don’t blame the world for my troubles, we all have burdens to bear, crosses to carry, thoughts that vary.
We choose to be positive or cynical, an optimist, a motivator or a pessimist, to be inspired, to be admired, to receive respect, to let go of regrets.
To love, and to be loved, to be touched and not resist, to give in but not up our inhibitions, to just be freely in this moment, if only for a moment, to let our bodies dance.
To not be critical of romance, to have peace with this world, if only for a day, then today is the day,
That I need a Girl.