No matter what is written is special because it comes from the writer's heart. Poetry cannot be criticized. But, inside, drowned out By the symphony of my heart. Cellos pouring forth their love and Violins weeping you name. The screams of the strings Cannot describe this pain.
Tears swell up and drop With each passing night.
If only you'd give me the sight. So I could look into yours And sink in their glow. Don't want to burn with The memories of the past. Can't bear to see This torture last. Precious love Come back to me.