Definition of a poet's heart

A definition of a poet's heart

Poem: a composition written in verse
Poet: maker, creator: a writer of poetry: also: a creative artist of great sensitivity
Poetry: metrical writing

Perhaps somewhere in there is the definition of my heart. You told me once, that I was poetry or a poem, or something to that effect. You said all these beautiful things to me before you gazed at my soul. Tell me, does the composition of my face sing to you in verse? You're a musician. Is it the shades of my hair? Is it the hue of my eyes? Or perhaps it is the blush of my cheek. Does the tint of my lips resonate to your ears? Does the tone of my voice calm the troubles of your day? Does the intensity of my eyes penetrate your heart? Does their mystery encircle your spirit with a magical dream? Would you still say I am a poem?

Could my essence be defined best as a poet? Do I create? I was once told that there are no new stories. All of them have been written. All a writer can hope to do is weave the thread into a new tapestry. I am no maker. The stories I write, the poems I pen are all the stitches sewn into my life. They are all the pains and joys of my heart. I speak now without shame. If I am sensitive, it is only because I hide not from it now. If you call me an artist, it is only because I let you see all of me. Is it the way I speak to you that makes you call me a poet? Is it the words that I say openly? They are the same words from which you hide? I was not always this way. I believed that strength came from the ability to withhold my tears. I felt I had to keep everyone at a distance. I was sure that any attachments would only result in wounds to my heart. I kept everyone and everything that meant anything to me from knowing my true spirit. Life was safer that way. The path was smoother. There were no stones to pierce my feet. But the path was also lonely. A man walking from out of the desert knows the value of water far more than the man who doesn't know what it is to be tortured by thirst. I carry that thirst with me so that I savor each sip of love. I take pleasure in every emotional connection. If that is sensitivity, so be it.

Poetry, you tell me often that it is how you see me. I know not how to write in iambic-pentameter. I'm not capable of sonnets. Does my writing possess the same rhythm as I do when I make love to you? Do the curves of my body contain rhyme if not reason? Does the perfume of my skin intoxicate you? Is your breath in time with mine as my breasts rise and fall? Do I entice you as I sigh to your touch? Do I beguile you with my eyes as your cock passes over my electric fur, into dripping flesh? You enter deep inside me. We move together in metrical rhythm. We dance the song of love. The beat of each thrust, the cry of every scream, and the passion of every kiss is a poem I have not the talent to inscribe. Making love with you is a ballad full of smiles and tears. Smiles are for the pleasure of touching your body. Tears are for the fear that keeps your heart from opening entirely. To love you is to hear the introduction of a magnificent song only to have the musician forget to play the other half. I lie under you with my heart open top to bottom, tip to toe. Let our souls entangle so that the distance or the touch of strangers could not begin to unweave the tapestry