In your heart?

Simply I call it night

I could sit here and expound,
Volumes and volumes of maniacal prose,
Baring My ribbed heart, and injured loins.
I could sit here and ramble,
On and on,
Talking about the injustice of the world,
Poetry breeds poets,
Screaming, raging, firing slings and arrows at society's capers.

I could sit here and be selfish,
Introspective,
Not giving a damn about what society puts in front of Me,
Not siding,
Wrong...or right.
Just telling you things that I feel inside.
Thinking about me,
And My hands, in yours,
My Feelings, My hurts, My pains,
My tired old feelings.

Cause that's all I have to offer you,
And all that I am.
I could find it in Me to bluster, and blow,
Scream and rail at injustice,
take the time to hold the hands of the spirits within Me,
Or battle them to the death.

I could sit here and write,
Reams and reams,
Of touch covers taste,
Me loving you,
The dance of the velvet of our skins,
the touch of our tongues in the mist.
Give you the rhythmic, attractive popular phrases,
That speak with and outward music,
Or sit and scratch My pen to paper,
Putting forth My words the way it should be read...

Soft sibilant whispers in your ear after midnight,
Your flesh curled against mine.
Transferred through miles of line in a whisper,
Doing all I can do...
To give you what I am.
Stripping down the layers of pride,
Of intellectual reflection,
And baring My soul,
My mysteries, My secret shames,
Giving you the truth of Me,
In the whispers of the night.