My Sweet Paragon
I find myself to be placed in a bit of a dire straight,
When writing out the lines to poems so worthy of your heart.
It seems to me so foolish that I woo a paragon,
Since nothing that I write does justice to your weakest part.
I sit sometimes alone at night rewording failed
But can't quite catch ahold of what you'd call the perfect rhyme
Know writing to perfection of perfection doesn't work
Since all that I could ever say would be a waste of time.
How could someone script a play to put Shakespeare
Then make him lean forth in his seat and start to Beg for more.
How could someone dream a scene to bring Shakespeare to tears,
Then make him rise up from his chair and start to Call encore.
Who would want to try and scribe a poem for Edgar
To write of falling pendulums and voices one does hear.
Best the raven he does quoth in page of flighty pen,
Then make him Buckle at his knees and Cower down in fear.
Any type of compliment I'd give is not enough.
Masters of such magnitude are not impressed with ease,
It takes a bit of what we like to call a miracle,
And then a bit of luck, a prayer to God, a wish and pleas.
Good luck to he who wants to try and paint a piece
To make Da Vinci Jealous and Impressed with their own style.
Grand magic birthed in color it would take to stroke a brush,
That caught Da Vinci's eye and made him Turn and Gaze a while.
I have no master painters touch or writers magic
I have no opera singers voice or sculptors chisled art.
All I have are written poems that speak of perfect love.
But mind you that I write these poems of love with all my heart.
Take these poems and cherrish them they're words
straight from my soul
To me they're held in high regards I've put them to the test
I recognize that in your eyes they might seem dull and bland
But recognize that in my eyes they are my very best