Writing to the Air.

No one reads these,

Simple things I post.

Too sad,

Or deep,

Or ridiculous

I suppose.

Well, I'll keep on till the day I die,

Writing to no one,

But thin air.

Why Play This Game?

You say you want nothing more,

Than the friendship we already have.

Yet your eyes look at me,

And almost beg.

You say your fine with what is here,

Yet you let me call you dear.

I’m not a toy.

My heart isn’t free.

Tell me darling,

Why play this game?

What am I to you?

I put myself on the line,

Not for the first time,

Yet still you turn,

My face to burn.

I look at you for something true,

But you act like theres nothing new.

I give my heart,

You refuse to start.

I give my love,

You fly away like a dove.

Is this a game?

Or do you think me lame?

I feel this deep dark blue,

So I ask: what am I to you?

What is Love?

Most things can be explained

With a simple word or phrase.

Can be defined

With a sure frame of mind.

Professors ponder,

As their students wander,

In and out of all we can explain.

But what of that which we can’t?

What is love?

Is it just a feeling,

And therefore insignificant?

Or simply hormones,

And thus controllable?

What can possibly cause a man as much grief?

And never is it brief.

Making all feel like a leaf,

Floating,

Aimless,

Pointless,

Alone.

What is love?

That ever ebbing tide,

Ocean wide.

So easy to be lost in,

Yet so hard to find.

That thing of which

Poets dream,

Bards sing,

People long.

But for what?

Do they know?

What is love?