Love Poems

Poems to Become Infatuated With

A Compliment

Of all the times and ways I’ve felt,
None do I relinquish control like this:
A woman I would let do whatever,
Even hold my junk while I piss;
Whatever she wants, I can’t stop
The train of her thoughts like bliss
Leading me into another dimension
Blotting out so many wasted years in the abyss.

Encouraging me to see who I should be, and am
Taking me into another plane of understanding
Into which our thoughts are melded
Into a better life, commanding
Just one more look at what’s going on
To comprehend the needs met, commanding
All that we deserve.

Not a missing piece,
But an upgrade to the ways and methods;
My life an ideal analogy,
But missing what could be represented;
The core aspect being appreciation,
The main ideology being wedded
To all the differences thereafter
And a life un-berated,
Un-judged,
Uncivilized,
and basically just left to be what it is rather than what it should be.

To be in love
Is to be out of love;
Out of light and out of the favors
Of all things from above
Us which create our endeavors;
Our pleasures;
And all the things we ultimately treasure.
Brought forth with a certain measure,
An informal praise that makes all the days
With our significant other a pleasure;
Because of love, and only love.
What it is, and isn’t;
What makes us tick or what doesn’t;
That which aligns ourselves to others because of it;
The soft, sadly singing sound of love;
A desire to be in front of it
And behind it, within it
To wit the most important thing
You’ve ever experienced. It...
Tells you everything you’ve ever wanted to hear and know in a single breath, just one simple breath, everything you’ve ever needed and nothing you don’t;
A refinement
A compliment
A decadence
A resonance
A resounding success of all your failures;
To feel like you should, when you should, and if not, to be comforted without limit and decision on which and when and whatever merely suspends it;
Derives it;
Deludes it.
Delineations of decidedly deceitful things that you leave behind because they’re simply not needed, never to be seeded among the sprawling fields of potential doubt;
To ever water this field in a drought,
Or set it to drain with too much rain;

To remove the pain through acts of selfless kindness and take the reins when the pains make us not who we are anymore for a time, and always once more because that’s kinda the human condition and to live with it is to live in it.

Love makes all things possible because everything worth doing and having is ultimately derived from it.
Love is the origin of caring about origins.
A jubilant self-expression that goes beyond what you are.
A fucking sick day or whatever.