MO.... Thanks for the Insight on Loving a Poet

I was catching up on blogger sites. My SISTERMENTORFRIEND, Mo put some interesting comments regarding poets and dating. As a practice, I do not date poets, nor do I want to date a poetry lovers (often disguised as poets who have not found their voice, but have the words down pact). I believe, like she, that we (poets) are well verse, overly imaginative and at times, manipulative. I will be honest, my overactive imagination has put me in some emotionally sound places, and at times it has placed me in the depths of what I would describe as HELL on an iron pole stuck to my brown round. I think of myself as a romantic, I dream of childlike fairy tale love, and I attempt to make my love life a never ending poem. I dream of endless nights of wrestling with the sheets and each other, kisses which brim with heated passion and smiles which could pave my way from Austin, Texas to Harlemworld, USA, barefoot in gasoline drawers. In other words I would travel that uncharted territory of an undiscovered realm in Dante’s Inferno for the one I love. We would live and die in the gaze of our eyes. I want that Ozzie/Ruby Dee kind of adoration and love. Ya feel me? I, too, am guilty of unbridled passion, and dime store seduction served on a million dollar platter.
Yet, I am aware that I am CRAZY as hell, when it comes to love. Yet, I have to love you. And that doesn’t come often. I have been attracted to people and spent my time with them, yet, seldom been consumed with them. But once consumed, I do not know how to love in moderation. Cannot tame it. And she’s absolutely right, I do not WANT SOMEONE EXACTLY LIKE ME. I could not imagine it. We would tear some mess apart. I have seen it for myself.
Despite this, in love, I have felt cheated, particularly when I believed the intensity and passion were not matched. I have been left desiring, restless and wanting… At times, you need the mastery of an artist to give you that lift, sweep you off your feet. Even if it’s a simple “Roses are red….”. I was asked once if I felt cheated because I was willing to give so much of my soul, my heart. I could not explain that the love relationship was prose and that moment was an unpenned sonnet, a chapter in a story yet to unfold. I could not bring verse to lips as easily as I could the lie that spewed for what I seemingly deemed as protection.
But here is an excerpt from my personal transgressions, or immortalization if you will:

Oshun, in past life, was I your man,
and you, my woman?
was it I who yearned for your touch,
my needs unfulfilled during
those sultry nights
under the lustful stars in Banjul?
I, who lingered around the Gambia River
stealth like, to steal glimpses of you
as you disrobed
and I watched you bathe?
I, envious, of the morning sun
as she kissed droplets of moisture
as it caramelized your skin.
skin, I longed to taste.
your sugary sensuality
continues to haunt me.
I have since shed
skin of past life,
yet you drip,
from the pout of my lips
as I reminisce.
has it been your passion
that resonates in my heartbeat
echoing in the shell of my lifeless soul?
has it been your harmony
that I sing when I search for comfort?
I float tears of Harlem’s river
as she is the only lover I know.
her melody lulls me to uneasy slumber,
as I pine for the richness of your thickness
crave the delicacy of your sweetness,