As I’m a writer, words mean more to me
Than anything of worth, not even gold
Could take away my pen; to be so bold
I’d even sell my soul before I’d be
Left speechless, but all words begin to flee
When blood inside my veins is running cold
At feelings unrequited when I’m told
That love cannot survive this heresy.
If I could have one wish it’d be a poem
That made you love me now as I love you;
That just for one sweet day you’d feel it too
And make my heart your resting place and home;
But even if I wrote the longest tome
You’d feel it not, so this will have to do.