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Conjolted Poetry

Conjolted Poetry

Wednesday, 21 January 2015

The Art of love

It's not about your physique
or how weak I make you feel
when I kiss you from your cheek
to the point below where I have to kneel.

It might be from the touch of my hand
that paints love over your body
as we master piece our hearts in sheets,
but no, It's only chemistry…

Not that formed when we kiss
but from how much of you I miss,
I mean that heart of yours that gives me bliss,
that hurt of yours that makes me trip,
that equation of you and me that forms we,
that compound formed when we yawn,
for as we sleep we are locked like a bond...

The art of your love
is not from the art of making love;
Ayeh, from the pieces of you
that you share with God up above...

Your ability to believe in me
despite the wrong within me,
your ability to take from me
yet still give me, for you once had a heart
but in a heartbeat, you gave me yours…

The beauty in your character-
that gives and never folds like a sleeve,
the frim hold in your hand,
when we walk like a chatter
and look like nothing else matters.

The patience within you
to deal with me like a patient-
for I yell, I nag, I make you sick-
but you handle me with care
and despite what I never break you,
even if sometimes I treat you like a rag...

The art of your love
is in the need to have
that replica who uplifts you!
I say replica for they say
We are one in the same;
A piece from a whole;
A cut from a diamond;
A copy of an image,
Of the artist of love…

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