Your Painted Lips Upon The Tea Cup

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Your painted lips upon the tea cup
A bountiful feast spread before you
A grateful life filled with laughter
There is nothing you wouldn’t do

Thinking of everyone else first
Within that most beautiful chest
Contains a self-sacrificing heart
Please know I’ll always love you the best

I Often Catch Myself

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I often catch myself

Glancing up at your windowpane

Occasionally seeing a silhouette

Memories of youth still remain

 

Possibly spying a lacy chemise

But now you’re wearing the curtains

Or maybe there was nothing on

But I couldn’t know for certain

 

The morning light not quite seen

I might feel like a common creeper

Alternate lifetimes in my mind

Yet I know you’d still be a keeper

I see your beautiful soul hiding

That passionate soul now a mere outline

Locked away in your precious life

I’m sure you’d say you’re ‘doing fine’

 

Possibly spying a lacy chemise

But now you’re wearing the curtains

Or maybe there was nothing

But I couldn’t know for certain

 

I see boundaries in your thought

I’m not intending to be rude

You can make your own decisions

I don’t wish to trespass nor intrude

You’re the princess in your castle

Not a figment of my invention

Locked eyes before you look away

Somehow grateful for the attention

Sitting In Front Of The Vanity

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Sitting in front of the vanity
Deciphering all your beauty marks
You see lines, wrinkles & blemishes
I see my very own Domestic Monarch


You’ll never see what my soul knows
But, I know how lucky I am to have this view
I’ll spend my days discovering new ways to cherish
I’m grateful you allow me to share eternity with you

Sheets & Reams Of The Nonsensical

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Sheets & reams of the nonsensical
Literary blood lost in the shadow of ink
The lifeforce of a simmering soul
Marginal hearts writing love against the kitchen sink
Leaving behind the caricature of an artist
Contributions to society felt in these empty sheets
Fingersmudges marking pages not so white
Starkly exposed with revolutionary words in the streets
Traces of hereditary ideals eroding away
Igniting pages shall still be a stilted sin
Yet we rise again from our desert floor
Eternally grateful our finite letters aren’t porcelain