When he finally got home from work each day,
There was no question about what drove him…

What he wanted to do immediately…

What he had thought about doing…

His mind was consumed with wanting
To write his poetry for her,
And read his verse to her…


Looking deeply…

Into her eyes.

He shouldn’t feel this way,
Should he?

He had friends consumed with physical pleasures,
Whether drugs or alcohol or sex,
And heretofore, he didn’t understand
Why they just couldn’t stop.

But these people craved their fix.

For some…it was a salve,
For others…it satisfied a hunger.

But for all,
They wanted nothing more than to do
The thing that gave them such deep,

He understood their ache.

When he first met her,
She sparked in him a special interest,
Which over the months began
To burn in his belly with a growing

And his outlet for this passion
And yearning,
Was his writing.

All he wanted to do,
Was to get lost in his thoughts of her…
And then find his way…
In writing about this beautiful woman.

And once written,
He wanting nothing more,
Than to sit with her,
And read for her…

Read what his mind,
And his heart,

So when his friends asked him
To go out at night,
He turned them down.

When he had that #1 bestselling book
To read…
It was left there,
At his bedside.

All he could think about,
All he wanted to do,
Was dream of her…

And write his prose,

Of her,

For her.




© 2017 W. C. Stacia, Jr.


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