An Honest Poem (Part II)

I’ve never been fond of the idea
of “stealing your heart.”
For some reason,
the theory of theivery
as the method
of acquiring affection
seems less
romantic,
than the pretensions
that Holly and Wood
attempt to portray.

We are not actors,
and I refuse to perform
on the stage
of your heart,
when every step we take
still creaks from the wake
of amateur lovers,
losing their footing
while looting leading roles
they could never uphold,
before ever learning how
to support you.

They reel from being real,
never able to assure you
of something more authentic
than rehearsed apologies
and screenplay breakups.
So you wake up,
to academy award
winning performances,
after lackluster nights
as memorable
as meteor showers in daylight,
“best picture” mornings
with a nominee
we both know,
doesn’t deserve to share
a moment in your limelight.

So I choose
to earn your attention
with chivalry,
your affection with a
“you break it you buy it”
kind of honesty
because I’d rather be yours,
after all the lies
we tell ourselves like:
“He wasn’t always like this,”
or
“He’ll change,
eventually.”

But I’ll wait,
’til you’re tired of settling
for settlers
with stuttering excuses
for being less than a man,
backpedalling
from every occasion
to stand up for you
as if he were allergic.

The larceny
of your love,
the heist
of artificial highs
and the stolen emotions
you were never meant to
“fall” for
need not be a sequel
to your future.

May you find
a man that needs no mask
to obscure his intentions,
a man who’s
honesty isn’t stapled to fibs,
an audacity to be mendacious,
a man
who knows where his place is,
not above but beside,
conjoined at the ribs
to inspire,
aspire to be
more faithful than his options,
a man
who’s never been fond of
stealing your heart,
but rather
engage it in its chase
for a love of a lifetime,
a man
willing to finish last
if it means putting you first. 

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Yellow Room

I loved you yesterday,
when your name was
only a guess
to a positive pregnancy test.
Yes,
you may have been unplanned
but never a mistake,
you were simply a future
conceived in high stakes.
So we wagered
and won
you,
like a prized possession.
You were
a surprising confession
we couldn’t keep secret,
neither did we want to.
So I told the neighbors
to keep their sons indoors starting now,
just as a safety precaution
because I was sure you’d be born
with ‘drop dead gorgeous’ syndrome
passed on from the back pocket
of your mother’s genes
which slightly explains
why I still might be
dying to see you.

So we waited
for your grand entrance
into this world,
like loved ones do at airports.
We waited
to commence our lives with you,
like Olympians at the starting line,
muscles taut with tension
with adrenaline spiking;
if they were running for gold
we were gunning for platinum.
We were ready
to place you on pedestals
before you ever conceived
the notion of crawling.

But who knew
that you would never taste
of defeat
or success?
Who knew
that we shouldn’t have been waiting
at the gate for your arrival
but rather in the line
for lost baggage claims?
Who knew
that you would send our expectations,
our emotions,
our hopes
through a marathon,
a triathlon
when
there was never a chance
of you waiting
at the finish line.
Who knew
that when we wagered and won
the prize would be
a still, empty crib,
stocks of diapers
and babyshower bibs,
pacifiers
that could never pacify you,
or this moment
in your yellow room
because pink and blue
were far too generic
and you
were far too precious
for colors to define.

Even though you’ll never know,
I’d love you today
and for the ‘morrows
that are never promised
I’ll love you always.

Audition

I’ll never be an artist,
rock star,
or an MC
with the telepathy
to sway the masses;
a model
with a face that passes
for something more than average
worth the click,
click,
shutter flashes
to the right of limelight passage;
I’m not
as smooth
as tap dancin’ jazz is
truth is,
my practice
needs practice
in all areas –
but loving you
unconditionally.

I’d like to be a prodigy
with the talent to
chase your soul
through its gauntlet
of insecurities,
doubts,
apprehensions
tugging chords of tension
to trust again,
past the scars
of failed relationships
with jesters attempting to be lovers.

Let it be known
that loving you
is the only thing
I’d like to be a natural at.
I’m not an acrobat,
I can’t somersault
this body of mine
into a heart like yours,
not even for a Klondike bar;
but I’m insane enough
to be your stuntman
if you let me.