I can label myself as a romantic, albeit a very guarded one. I don't talk about my feelings directly, don't let myself stay over, and try to keep things superficial. But sometimes I catch the feels, and when it happens my inner romantic splooges all over the place because it finally gets a chance to run wild. Wild like a chicken with its head cut off, but still wild.
But like all chickens it has to die eventually, and I wrote a poem about the distance I put between myself and the end I know is coming. Here goes:
Harsh is the light
that hits the romantic's eyes.
Just as harsh as reality
to the romantic's wild feelings.
This tunnel is black
but not all happenings in the dark
are works of negativity.
A movement can be felt and not seen.
Better to sense with the bold red
of this heart's beat
and the most delicate touch of skin.
Ignore the slow, steady rumble,
ignore that cutting beam,
give no thought to oncoming trains.
This tunnel doesn't have to end.
Just keep on running down the track,
wild flowers in hand.