At War

I have an army of jealous marching, 
Armed with guitars. 
I am no conqueror over the roses, 
But they won’t get near you. 
You are a flower of your own. 
Your waist is a ninja. 
A knife is at my throat. 
Your breasts…are a tactical unit.

I am easily angered. 
And you’d see me slaughtering 
Flying-kisses with a katana; 
Love letters for you, burned, 
Gunpowder. 
I’d be on a watch with a machine gun, 
Guarding your heart. 
And then you’d call me weird.

You see, my heart has a detonator. 
And if it’s your wish to see me exploding, 
And then let it be, yet do not pick the pieces, 
The adjectives in the streets; 
You’d only make a lament out of them. 
Dear, I am just a blacksmith of words. 
And your love…is a pepper spray.

I am at war 
With your senses. 
I want 
Your attention.

© 2012 J.S.P.