The floppiest golden locks,
like pieces of silken sunshine,
adorn your crown.
And that wry smile.
They wait on your every word
as if it could sustain them
indefinitely.
They swoon at your emerald eyes.
Emerald because
it makes a sound so mellifluous and smooth
as it trickles and ripples from your moist lips.
Emerald because
it always seemed the colour
that a poet’s eyes
should be.
The casual flick of the wrist,
a flash in the dark recesses of your mind,
and heaven on earth on paper is created.
Ready to be published,
marketed,
used,
stolen.
Yours the face on every cover issue,
yours the name on every pair of fleeting lips,
you the flavour of this eternal, ethereal month.
Every poet must dream.
Agitation of hands. Strength of words. 
Right-ho! Dream on, emerald eyes!
very vivid, i should get green contacts, no?
Yes,
or emerald ones.
You could just replace your eyes with ACTUAL emeralds. If that wasn’t really really painful.
And also, DON’T stop writing poetry.
I haven’t stopped, just taking a break. By the way, do you have a favorite of mine? No one really responded to that entry. Makes me feel less special. Boo hoo.
I was kind of avoiding that because it’s a difficult one but I’ve
got it down to 3 favourites
– Pepper Died
– A Writer’s Bookstore
and, of course,
– Wings
You have a way with words….. forgive the imagery but it’s almost as if you’re giving birth to your lines, you write intimately, with a sense of miracle, beauty and although maybe not the most important but still noticeable ingredient: pain.
Love it….. if that’s not too hypocrital….
No, it’s great.
Thanks spaz. I always enjoy reading your little critiques:
they make me smile.