These possibilities pull a mind-freak
with blinders down, punk sensibilities and pop sensitivity.
Further swelling of ambition and muscular development
only make for excuses more relevant to the nagging questions and
far-out answers from when I wasn’t doing so well for myself.
(Hardly “stealth mode” at the moment.)
You may have issued the issue, but I own it…
The final grades on me;
her eyes allow the “C” before we “F.”
But that wordplay hardly matches our foreplay of playing with matches.

Pull one off and scratch my head…
The taste of you is all lit up;
white-hot as an overcast blocks the blues in eyes’ shadow.
Rain leaks from the sky, as I lose the mood.
Run away,
try and make it up another time.
But no matter how much it pours, I still know how to make your makeup run,
and get you all wet indoors.

I may be afraid of the reverberation of my own voice,
but presenting the oral is a clear and loud choice.
Somehow I think you might want to listen to the buzz
in the words that mate to make the verse converse with mind’s eye,
and enjoy looking into eyes of mine.
There’s nothing so divine…
Nothing more than the ordinary bump into the daily grind of our pumping hearts
and beating odds.
Its not hard to see, our hearts are at odds.
We bleed the compassion of God to see this through.
I have faith in “Its worth the wait.”

You came over again, just to watch me.
And watch me read these words aloud.
But it was never a date; it was murder.
For me, more than anything, its a blur.
And a chore to spike our emotions this high,
swelling up to the size of my consequential epitaph:
“I loved it when we laughed.
I’d love her to give me my heart back, when she’s done with it.
Although I don’t need it so much now,
I still know how to make her makeup run like God’s compassion, in blood.”
Thanks for your cult of personality.
I have faith in “Its worth the wait.”

Mike O’Toole