Josey Portas | + Follow Poet |
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A Painful Truth

I love to read of poetry so divine
That is beautiful in even shabby hands like mine,
But sometimes you have to read it quick 
Since the smell of love can make you sick.

So offer now a kiss of yours, and I will soon reject it.
Do not offer me your hand, for I will not protect it.
My love dies like the sun, only to come back again,
But other times it will stay as an unwanted stain.

You could suggest not gold nor myrth
That could cover a fraction of its worth;
Since a watchful, youthful eye is a valuable as dirt,
(Especially now that I know how love can hurt).

Imagine now from years ago, each night you slept,
You'd dream of the one person that left.
Now try to picture just how I see it, 
And imagine still loving them to this day.

I love to read poetry as I sit and start to weep,
For they have a reason why they're getting no sleep.
And, ah, the poor saps have the same, lovestruck skit,
But the painful truth is, how I miss it.

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