Half English / Half Cynicism

100 Sonnets || Poem #13

You know you're the hardest thing to write about? 

I can spout any little thing about every little thing but you? 

You're the hardest thing to write about. 

Sometimes I get so frustrated that I can't articulate my thoughts I shout out and slam my laptop shut,

but I'll always return to your poem

like I'll always return to you. 

You're so hard to write about that I could spit out five pages of wordless vomit 

or I could promise you five words with so much meaning

gleaming on the page

you get one or the other. 

Choose. 

I think I sat here for half an hour grappling with the power of some words I couldn't wrangle onto the page 

like a rope-less cowboy riding in circles,

like a runner with no hurdles,

what a stunner you are my little star. 

How is it that the words I want to say can slip this far out of reach?

It's dizzying how much I love you.

I love you so much my brain scrambles quicker than eggs on a sunday morning's skillet

I think I love you more than olive acrylic paint

and nothing can taint my experience everytime I'm near you.

It's you, and you will never understand how hard you are to write about because

Shakespeare had it all wrong.

When Shakespeare wrote his lover a few sonnets, he was clearly in love with the lyrical I

but when he started writing her hundreds?

I think he just really loved writing sonnets.

I've written at least fifty poems and only three of them pertain to you...

You're so hard to write about I doubt you'll ever understand that constant

ripping struggle of chasing after words that won't stop running,

yet these words are so stunning you can't stop to breathe

or think of a cunning plan to string them together into a coherent

Eloquent phrase,

dazed in a constant haze of miscommunication because I can't tell you how special you truly are

My little star.