This is much real,

Than the poetry I write,

I will not compare this,

To a dark cloud hanging behind

The silver sun,

Or a flock of birds,

Flying above an endless crimson tide,

Over mountains and grasslands,

Just to find the driest piece of land.

This is my truth you read,

More than that of a misplaced growl,

Of a tiger deserted in a

Rainforest of loneliness.

Not just another fearless fire blazing across

Towns of dreamy passion.

This is all of me you now see.

My flesh, bones and blood.

Not just about waterfalls of tears,

Oceans of rose petals,

Orange dusks and crystal dawns,

Or blackest inks and smoothest paper.

It’s more than all the similes,

Metaphors and personification.

Alliteration and oxymorons.

This is ‘us’ I am talking about.

You and me, and the real world.

Not just another inspiration.

Not another piece of my so called ‘art’.

You’re more than that.

This is real.

My love is real.

Yes, I am a poet.

But I am also a man-

Simply hurting for his woman.