The Poetics of Mark Anthony

[markanthonypoet]

I love all the crazy shit you do, that makes you you.

[markanthonypoet]

Getting coffee with you in the morning in an empty town full of nothing, your smile fills me with all the magic of the universe.

[markanthonypoet]

strong and soft, and so elegantly not giving a fuck, your soul speaks to me in ways that always makes my soul smile.

[markanthonypoet]

The more time we spend together, the easier it is to see why we fell in love.

[markanthonypoet]

How lucky I am to have found somebody to share this life with, somebody who find beauty in the world through her own eyes, yet sees the same beauty through mine.

[markanthonypoet]

Everything you do, is poetic to me.

[markanthonypoet]

I don't look at other women because I know, you are every woman, and I would only be longing for another part of you.

[markanthonypoet]

We have been through

so many things together,

I wouldn't know where to begin,

but we have loved through it all,

like heroes in a story

only we would read.

Like star-crossed lovers

crossing the ocean of time

and still ending up

on the same shore.

[markanthonypoet]

It may seem like there are no good men left,

that they have all vanished into the wind,

but they are out there, and just like you,

they are waiting for somebody who is real,

somebody who can see beyond the bullshit,

somebody who wants to live a life of passion,

honesty, and humor. Somebody who wants

to hold your hand, and watch the sunset,

somebody who wants to laugh in the wind,

somebody who knows real love is the only love

worth having.

[markanthonypoet]

the hunger artist

Watching you undress like the ocean

spreading across a sandy shore

and retreating back into the infinite

from which it came.

With each button you smile at me,

and with each snap of fabric,

you teased me like a child.

With each line of lace,

you erased me with your thumb,

and turn me into a thousand abstract

colors of desire. I wanted

to speak,

but I was smeared

upon your canvas in so many

strange and happy places,

only you could tell me

who I really was.

[markanthonypoet]

dark,

and darkening

your eyes,

this music of fever and quiet,

your hands holding my lust

like a flame,

as I kissed you full of a million dreams,

and time

stood still as the mountain froze

into rain,

and when I came,

the rain began to fall outside

on the window,

like a million tiny hands

trying to get inside.

[markanthonypoet]

last night, you wrote a symphony on my back with only your fingernail, and though I can't read music, I could feel it entering me like sunlight enters an empty room, and I wanted you to keep writing forever so that I never had to leave this room where love is written so sweetly upon my skin, it would have made history, if history wasn't about the blood of conquest, and was written only in the name of love.

[markanthonypoet]

last night, you wrote a symphony on my back with only your fingernail, and though I can't read music, I could feel it entering me like sunlight enters an empty room, and I wanted you to keep writing forever so that I never had to leave this room where love is written so sweetly upon my skin, it would have made history, if history wasn't about the blood of conquest, and was written only in the name of love.

[markanthonypoet]

last night, you wrote a symphony on my back with only your fingernail, and though I can't read music, I could feel it entering me like sunlight enters an empty room, and I wanted you to keep writing forever so that I never had to leave this room where love is written so sweetly upon my skin, it would have made history, if history wasn't about the blood of conquest, and was written only in the name of love.

[markanthonypoet]

last night, you wrote a symphony on my back with only your fingernail, and though I can't read music, I could feel it entering me like sunlight enters an empty room, and I wanted you to keep writing forever so that I never had to leave this room where love is written so sweetly upon my skin, it would have made history, if history wasn't about the blood of conquest, and was written only in the name of love.

[markanthonypoet]

dark,

and darkening

your eyes,

this music of fever and quiet,

your hands holding my lust

like a flame,

as I kissed you full of a million dreams,

and time

stood still as the mountain froze

into rain,

and when I came,

the rain began to fall outside

on the window,

like a million tiny hands

trying to get inside.

[markanthonypoet]

the hunger artist

Watching you undress like the ocean

spreading across a sandy shore

and retreating back into the infinite

from which it came.

With each button you smile at me,

and with each snap of fabric,

you teased me like a child.

With each line of lace,

you erased me with your thumb,

and turned me into a thousand abstract

colors of desire. I wanted

to speak,

but I was smeared

upon your canvas in so many

strange and happy places,

only you could tell me

who I was.