A poet can cast off the cares of this world,
fly from his fears like a dove.
But there's one thing his writing can not wrench him from;
and that is the longing of love.
(Random. Romanticism. Alliteration. Quatrain.
I could try and say I found this somewhere,
or blame its creation on someone else.
Or just justify it by some dry emotionless explanation.
But my blushing face seems to always give it away.
Sorry if it's too mushy for your liking,
or that you just don't "get it."
I'm sorry that you aren't a poet, that is.
And yes, the title is "No Title.")
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