The only good poetry

I've never seen white paper look so pale;
deathly ill, immune to this ink I attempt
to inject in its vein. Nothing worth writing
about. Every subject lost in a world of frantic
conversations with no love seat to rest on-
Then there's you.

The insomniac of all my sleeping thoughts
that awakes to cure these flu like emotions.
Sick from the polluted treatments that others
infected me with. Doubting my mind that no
one would make me smile as much, laugh as
much, or write as much-
As you have made me do.

The only good poetry I come up with is
when your face greets my imagination and
I write of the breathless state I surrender
to. My poetry is only fascinating when I write
of my very cliche', yet very real fantasy of laying
in a field of wildflowers, under a shade tree,
head on your chest.

Call me a romantic, but I decorate my poetry
with hearts and Eskimo kisses because it
becomes real to me. To snuggle with my idea
of you. I embrace every urge to scribble your
name among these abstract words. You can't see
it, but its there. Medicating me with the only good
poetry I've got.