Poem By Leslie Alexis
Sleep refuses to bestow her grace upon me.
I close my eyes,
And I see your big brown eyes
And feel your perfect face pressed up mine:
To a closeness,
Representative of the way we are,
Our two souls do clap together,
Reinforcing each other, my backbone becomes your prop
But, even with our infinitely small lines,
The point is,
There are lines;
And behind those lines lies secrets and clandestine flaws.
Things that stirs within me
Turning rainbow-like love and adoration into hell-like darkness.
The thought of you being perfect and by your own will refusing to be,
Is the thorn in my heart.
I do think realistically: and no one is perfect,
But my heart rewards effort;
Just the attempt to be.
Unless you try
Then these are my final words, and farewells