Emerging Butterfly

"Finding Life Beyond Anxiety Disorders"
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This poem was written from the perspective of a young man who at the time was obsessed with a young woman.  The thoughts of her literally were  haunting him day and night without rest from what I could see.  The title was decided before the writing of the poem actually began.  I tried to write from his perspective and put into words all that I heard him say to me about this person and his anguish.  He really liked the resulting poem and I think it is also one of my favorites at this time.  Currently he is finding his way out of the "enchantment" this person seemed to have on his heart. 
He is a fighter.  I encourage and applaud him as he fights for his freedom and rediscovers himself.
 
 

The Haunting of Her Love

 

There is no escaping the thoughts of her in my mind.  The beauty of her face manifests itself in visions that follow and haunt me to the depths of my soul.  Whether I wake or sleep it makes no difference.  She is there.  She is always there; leaving my heart in a continuous state of conflicting peace and inner turmoil.  Like a moth drawn to a flame I am entranced and madly captivated by her without a hint of concern to my own well-being. 

 

I ache to touch her hair as my hand reaches beyond the apparition before my mind and then knowingly and sharply withdraws as a closed fist of frustration and want.  She is currently beyond my reach and yet continually within and before my heart and mind.  It is the maddening irony that both pumps and restricts my heart in a futile dance of fury.  There is no relief.  Nor would I want any.

 

If I were to find a release from her I could not embrace it.  For even one day without the thought of her would be like experiencing an eternity of unbearable pain.  A pain so searing it would blister beyond that which I currently feel, although how, I cannot comprehend.  She intoxicates me by the mere thought of her love for which I’m prepared to wait even a thousand years for.  To hold her hand again, would make it appear as if it had only been a mere second of anticipation as her eyes would vanish all that time had wrought.  Until then I live not for myself, but in the hopes of her love which has the power of both life and death in its grip.