I cannot sleep, and I know why, but do I dare admit it?
(I fear that if I should, I'd live only to regret it)
Ah, but it tears me up inside... exactly as they said
Who knew how right they were--the poets--now long-dead?
I must say something; my heart cries out to speak, but I cannot
So, I allow my pen to be my voice--say why I am distraught
Love has taken hold of me, and refuses to let go
What a strange sort of Love he is, although
He would not be considered handsome, I daresay
But, oh so charming in his manners, any way
"Intelligent" is too simple to describe his frame of mind
"Funny" is too droll to call humor of his kind
I would say that he's a gentleman, yet very modern, too
Knows how to treat a lady, but gives her what she's due
Oh! how could I ever fall for less than what he is?
Yet, my fear is never finding him--I wonder, what is his?