There is no one to write for,
in my life, too painfully true.
My writing should dry up,
silent, living the rest of my life...
...painfully blue.

A neighbor across the street,
deserves a little tender loving care,
two children and bad marriages,
a simple hint of dinner, she won't dare.

A lonely woman who secretly wishes
for a little romantic company.
Just exchanging a passing glance and
she shuts the door, being scared of me.

A hundred ghosts, of ladies and memories,
that haunt the rooms within my head.
They just couldn't deal with such simple
and open feelings; they shunned me instead.

And...

The love of my life, who I really
wanted to be by her side;
caused in me the most strife,
hit by a drunk driver, she died.

~~~~~~

I want to moderate this score,
as the rejected love from me pours.
When I write about love, I will
always give it my total all.
It just takes a bit more courage
and a little drop of gall.

Even, if within the workings of my mind,
I write with the thoughts of you;
perhaps God intended for other people
my loving creations, to pass through.

It takes such a minuscule amount of love,
even if only from pets to be received.
That feeling of comfort, written as
if from true lovers can be perceived.

Crafty little observations of successful couples,
coyly stolen from the corners of one's eyes.
Written as if a fact from one's own life,
beautiful lessons for others, it provides.

I will still write from the perspective of love,
even if only from convictions and belief.
I have fooled many with my poetic slight of hand,
even thanked by distressed lovers, a bit of relief.

You can break my heart and push me away.
My greater love comes from what
I believe that God wants me to say.