Finger Muscles

When I write poetry about love,
it's like my hearts saying, "here, I'm gonna flex these for you"
knowing what I think, I think love is true.
True, I haven't found you but when I do...
when I do my fingers will be flexing, "I Love You"
I love you like seventy percent of Americans,
who take freedom for granted.
I Know I'm young but my feet are planted.

I'll see you around,
half way around the globe,
or it better seem so,
because I'm done,
done like the thousands of whores across the world,
chasing false hope,
like the drug users that are hurdling over police tape,
with outstretched arms starving for the next high.

High, like up on the ledge that I would throw myself from,
only if I was a lemming searching for your love,
the wind in my face,
I'm falling from above,

Above, kind of like the "state -your-name-above" section in the prenuptial agreement form that so many people flex their fingers for...
I'd say that as soon as you state your name;
their goes our love, flailing and suffocating on the
cold.
dead.
floor.

But in wanting you more,
greed has smacked me in the mouth,
and ripped my eyes from within the sockets they should be withheld,
only knowing that your "Love" rings a silent bell.
singing me sweet tunes of muscle flexing,
I Love You's.



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