I Used To Be A Romantic

I wish I'd written a poem everyday since I was thirteen
but I can only wax poetic when I think of how I used to be.
If only I weren't as old and not so weary of the world
I'd like to write a sonnet that'd make even Shakespeare bored.

Because if I dream at all these days
they're painted colorless and grey.

But I'd write about a girl I knew.
How in the springtime of our youth
we'd sit lazily against a tree
serenaded by music of the breeze.

And as it passed the dancing grass would tickle our bare toes
but I'd have it written like it was actually prose.

And I'd talk of her rosey, fair skin
silky as the dress she's in.
And how the freckles on her face
remind me of the stars in space.
I don't know what purpose they serve
but they're still beautiful to observe.

If my eyes still saw with such crystal fascination
then perhaps my heart could still jump in elation.

I'd say her eyes were dark chocolate
her lips, thin rubies drawn togethor.
Her hair flowed like brown rivers.
I love to watch her eat a peach
while the nectar caresses her chin.

But I wouldn't say it at all like that.
I'd word it with more charm and tact.

And when she smiles, she tries to hide it
but her wrinkled nose gives her away.
Her laugh sends ripples through her body
of emotion unrestrained.

I like to think I'd be more descriptive
instead of so curt and dismissive.

And perhaps I'd compare her to a summer's day, to Aphrodite, or Venus.
Tell her all the love I have for her would make the gods jealous
and that if I only had enough seeds
I'd plant her a garden with my flowery speech.

But that's not how it happened.
So I stare up at the clouds.
I was miserable back then
and I'm miserable right now.
At least I used to be creative.