Letters to Dandelion by Xve Read Free Book Online Page B

rise above the fold.
     
    For a man to refuse to get a wink of sleep,
    For a man to work hard towards his dreams,
    For a man inside to find the light, or
    a man outside, to trade his life.
     
    A Woman’s beauty chases away all of men’s fears.
    Her beauty can make him stronger, smarter and feel
    younger in years.
     
    A Woman’s beauty punches a man in his stomach,
    makes him shake with waves of nervous snow.
    Her image can make a man feel inadequate, until it’s you
    he gets to know.
     
    A Woman’s beauty can unravels a man’s plans, shatter
    his carefully crafted mold back to that of a five year old.
     
    From the Beauty of You, You precious souls,
    It is your Beauty that has shaped this entire world.
     
    When a Woman shares her beauty with a man at night,
    and the connection between the two is right,
    this is the action that gives him all his might,
    to take on the world in a stand up fight.
     
    He’ll be the Soldier, who develops a sixth sense to return
home.
    He’ll be the Doctor, who works harder than any other.
    He’ll be the Teacher, who envisions you in the classroom,
    Or maybe the Poet; writing you this heart-filled sonnet.
     
    But make no mistake about it,
     
    The Beauty of a Woman is a gift, which serves
    as more, than as just a covering of skin.
     
    It is the key to where all humanity can win.
    Because a man strides, a man conquers, just to find that one
    Beautiful Woman, the one who he can lay the
spoils of plunder down at her feet.
     
    In hopes of calling her –
     
    His complete own.

It’s never returned
    and she never
cries
    No matter what I put out,
    it never comes back.
     
    My boomerang is broken
    and the return policy
    is null and void.
     
    She never cries, because
    she’s a tough little girl,
    in a beautiful shell,
    and full of herself,
    but not in a bad way.
     
    It’s never returned
    because, I must be cursed.
    Of course, that’s the
    reason. Because I say
    the wrong words,
    in the wrong seasons.
     
    Yet, she’s so beautiful,
    when she’s laughing,
    and talking,
    and walking.
     
    She’s brash and painted
    and delicate.
     
    She smokes,
    and jokes,
    and loves her
    puppy dog.
     
    I love her.
    But, it’s never returned.
     
    I can’t tell her,
    because she gets
    antsy and afraid.
     
    It’s beautiful when
    she cries. Because
    that’s a world all
    in of itself.
     
    And she never lets
    anyone see that.
     
    She let me see,
    and I believe,
    in her heart.
     
    Her will and her
    desire to change,
    to grow, to be
    a better person
    and to live a full
    life.
     
    She doesn’t want that
    with me, however.
     
    But the world is a two
    way street, and I love
    everything about her.
     
    So, it’s never returned
    to me.
     
    Oh God, send the Angel
    of Death quickly.
    I’ll even set out milk
    and cookies.
    As I’m just a long, lost
    loser blowing like a
    grain of sand in a
    storm around her.
     
    She cries, because
    she’s been hurt,
    and she’s given her
    heart,
    and she knows
    where she is.
     
    She is delicate, under
    all that scaffolding.
    She’s a work in progress
    trying to fall in love with
    herself,
     
    So she can love someone
    else.
     
    But, she won’t pick me.
     
    So, what I feel is never
    returned.
     
    It just burns, going on and
on and on, like the unwatched
    comet.
     
    In a sea of blackened
    nothing.

Nothing Romantic About the Pain
     
    Who knows what happens,
    When things go wrong.
     
    Who can say when the music bleeds,
    Dead away, from a song.
     
    And Rhythm no longer seems to move your feet,
    Food is tasteless every time you eat.
     
    A person’s smile makes you react as though it were a frown.
    Even the sun shining every day, seems to get you down.
     
    You look at yourself and can’t find your own face.
    You remember past loves and feel such disgrace.
     
    Were there hard words?
    Deception?
    Betrayal?
     
    Actions that made you curl,
    Like a snail?
     
    And creeps your mentality to a daily, conforming slow –
    Only you’ll know – and to attest;