He is such an inspiration, my enthusiasm, revelation, illumination, my expectations.
Importance that he holds, although he knows it not, oh and how can I help it if he is all that I have got?
And it sounds funny to read, when spoken vociferously, but when your eyes are worn words are all that we have to see.
a definition is needed, what is perfection, surly he is, or at least some form of deception, or a recollection, some being that has been numerously corrected, or selected, or infected with a conception, and this is getting off track, yes this poem is being re-directed.
He has wide eyes, they’ve told not one calumny. They are used for more than their purpose, more than merely just to see.
And I have scrutinized upon them, under microscopes of pain, and they are the purest I have seen, unwilling to play any games.

His words are powerfull, among other things
He speaks straight into my heart, as platitude or cliché as it may seem.
And I am not a poet, not in comparison, I am not worthy to be envied, the sorrow I feel I enjoy,although it’s a process of pain, I like the way it feels, once I realized what I’ve gained.
I believe he feels the same way, the same remourse in his words, the same solitude they hold,
The way they drag, or in other-words lag, the way they move slowly, sorely, maybe reluctantly at best.
The way they move into a crest, a highest point, a moment where they all seem to join, into the reasoning, or act like a seasoning, in such a charming, or disarming way. The way the speak to me upon day after day, the way they cross, the way they sway, the way they tear my heart out of my body,and drag it on the ground, the way they mean more than what they say, they are so much more than a sound.
The way they pick my heart back up, and re-attach all my veins, make me feel like im the only one who has survived the crashing of a plane.
Holla back if you get what I’m sayin’