My medium of choice has always been poetry. Why poetry? Oh, probably because I am terrifically bad at it and I tend to gravitate to those things that cause the most humiliation to myself. Also, the intoxication of love tends to over-inflate my confidence like beer must do for most guys.
I've included a couple poems I've penned in the name of love and the responses I received from the recipients. I count these poems as moron tax, because, I sent these poems with intense emotion and received, in return, the equivalent of "That's nice, Wendy." Also, though it may not be obvious, I lavished time on them and yet they are still thoroughly bad.
If I could have anything in the world,
I'd lay you undressed on my bed
with your arms and legs half-outstretched.
And you'd lie there looking
beautiful as a brittle leaf.
This would then be a good opportunity
and reach for the clipboard I keep
beneath the bed.
I'd stick my fingers in your ears
rim of your nostrils and I'd tap your chest with my fist.
to uncover your hidden spots.
The last thing to do would be to bite you,
gently, on the thinnest part of your skin.
Perhaps to draw a little bead of blood, so I can
see its color in the name of thoroughness.
At the end, I'd nod to myself knowing
that I have done what I can. I'd lie beside
you and place my hand upon yours.
We'd lie together like that for what feels
to me to be days. And when you wake up,
you'd feel as if you've known me forever.
"what a sweet poem. needless to say my night was a drag and it didn't help that i woke up early in the morning. mother's day is next week! i might as well get a cot."
There are times when you look at me
as though I might as well be skipping stones
into the ocean as talking to you.
If you could know
all I am trying
to do is cast one bottled message
into that immense and foreboding water
to spite the impossible
that it could deliver itself
to where it would matter.
Perhaps one day,
you might discover
washed upon your shore this
small and curious bauble.
You could take it in your hand
and raise it to the bright sun
to shed light
on the far flung hope
still captive and curled inside.
Then I, while you
stand there blinking,
may finally be received
"I loved your poem, but it made me very, very sad. (OK, I admit that I had to look up "baubel".)"