You asked to read my love poems
The ones I'd written about You
I was too ashamed to tell you, so,
I told you none were true.
How was I to tell You
You are the theme of my heart's ache?
I'm sorry I lied. . .
I did it for your sake.
You told me they were excellent
As if I wrote them on paper with ink
But, I write with and only with my soul,
Despite what You may think.
So, now I've come to tell You
Those poems I said weren't true
They really do have meaning. . .
For I wrote them about You.