Charmed, I'm sure

I can be charming and charismatic when I choose to be.

There are a few out there who agree with this statement, and know it for truth, and they are those out there who laugh at this statement, and respond with, "is that before, or after you insult them to the point of wanting to slap you?" ... Usually before, just as an fyi.

I am rarely charming or charismatic. Because my charm is that of a poet, it is soft words, sweet compliments, gently spoken and eloquent in delivery.

However to have the charm of a poet, one must have the heart of a poet. The problem with allowing oneself to have the heart of a poet, is that such a creature loves too easily. It falls as a hopeless romantic where the heart of a cynic stands cold to the brutal winds of reality.

The heart of a poet is easily donned, if given cause, or sometimes by sheer accident, but not so easily removed. When the heart of a poet is set upon the throne within a chest, to be left beating, it needs the attention and emotions of another, it begins to seek it out, and yearns for it.

The heart of a poet... The heart of a tortured artist... So on so forth. It's emotional, intense, and passionate. Yet it can be crushed so easily, so simply, with little effort put behind it. It can be unleashed one night, to soft spoken verses, and tales of the past... Understanding and caring, a shoulder to lean on. However then it begins to read more into what is being said, who is saying it, how it is spoken, and upon the next encounter, there is want, no, need.... There is a desire, a longing for more of it.

Except the heart of a poet doesn't see the truth, it sees what it craves. When the heart of the cynic whispers in it's ear the truth, or when the truth becomes emboldened by blatant statement, it tends to fold. The worst part of such a thing, is it is not the cruel depression of suicide, or the dark voices whispering death, but instead it is the razor shaving off confidence, self-esteem.... Nothing can show a man his worth like the reality of a situation. Or his lack of worth as a case may be.

Being elegant in speech doesn't fix everything, it doesn't help matters any, and when a girl wakes up and realizes that such a thing was indeed merely flowery words and gentle caresses, she may herself check back to reality when someone else offers her more than words, and more than thoughts.

This is a rambling post, I know, with what likely seems no point.

It is a reprimand for myself, it is a reminder of my worth, and why I am not charming all the time. It is a beacon to the heart of the cynic, and why poets don't belong in this world, as cruel and jaded as it is.

Cheers.