IWantToBeAPoet

Hi. I’m Marcus and I…want to be a poet.
And I know what some of you are thinking.
“But Marcus! You’re a great poet.”…Really?
You telling me I’m a good poet is like me telling you, you’re beautiful.
You wouldn’t believe me either.
And that’s one of the reasons I want to be a poet.
I want to be able to tell you you’re beautiful in a way that would make you believe it yourself. But I don’t want to be your typical Romeo. I want to be that insensitive asshole that will tell you everything you don’t want to hear but still convince you that you’re pretty.

I want to tell you when the hair on your legs is getting spiky and out of hand. That when that happens, it reminds me of a hedgehog or a porcupine. The cutest little thing protecting itself from all the assholes out there that would complain, or make fun of you about it. Or like the thorns on the stem of a rose…

I want to tell you that all the make up you have on your face makes you look like a complete whore. Or a mime. Because I would think you were the prettiest girl I’ve ever met in just sweats and a ponytail. That I like your face on its own…like a biscuit from Popeyes…or just through a conversation on the phone without your voice being weighed down by Sephora products. I don’t even think that’s possible, unless they made a breathmint.

That your clumsiness, is the most adorable thing. And every single thing you’ve broken because of that…well, I didn’t like them anyway.
That you…are flat-chested. And I couldn’t care less. That way, nothing distracts me from looking your face. With the tiniest little nose, I’m surprised you can even smell anything.

Glasses on your face so you're scared of being called 'four eyes'. But look here four eyes, it's just more of your eyes to look into.

Because I want to tell you that you don’t have the most amazing blue…or hazel eyes behind those frames. And I’m fine with that. That I can spend hours lost in the darkness of your pupils and I swear to God that the night sky retreats into your eyes every time the sun is out.

I want to tell you. That you…are fat. But I like it because holding you keeps me warm in the wintertime. Or that you...are a midget and all the high heels in the world won't lift you higher than my chin. But they say the best things can come in the smallest packages and you are living proof that they can.

And I don't care if you tell the corniest and lamest jokes, because I still laugh knowing that you being funny doesn't matter because I'd try to be funny enough for the both of us.

I want to learn every single language in the world and tell you that you are beautiful in a different way every chance I got. But I would never tell you what it actually meant. So you would always wonder if I was saying something bad about you. Which I wouldn’t be, I promise.

I want to be a poet, just to tell you that it’s your imperfections that make you imperfectly perfect to me. Because I like your clumsiness, I like your flat chest and your little nose. I like your glasses, and I love your love-handles...well...eh. I like your dark eyes. I like every single one of those things because they make you...you. And I wouldn't have you any other way.

ACompletelyLogicalFearOfMonsters

Ever since I was a child, I’ve been scared of monsters.
But every time they would come up in conversation…I would just chuckle and smile. Trying to hide the fact that I checked underneath my bed and in my closet every night in some absurd routine. Putting my faith in the dream catcher hanging above my head every night I would lull myself to sleep but only nightmares were tangled in its net.
So I would fend off the shadows, armed with only a flashlight and my own words. Convincing myself that I would never be safe, and so I refused to sleep.

I thought I’d grown out of it. So every time they would come up in conversation I would just smile and say, “Monsters are just a figment of your imagination.”
But the older I’ve gotten, the more I’ve come to believe in monsters and the terrors that the night hides from rays of sunlight and the watchful eyes of God.
And I realized that the things that go bump in the night are only messengers sending codes in Morse, urging me to stop hiding in the corners of my room.
But I was scared.

Because I have not only seen a monster…I’ve seen one created before my very eyes. As it stood before me, fully formed, I could no longer smile.
So how could I not believe in monsters?
When I’ve seen you tear tears from the eyes of women like it was nothing but a game. A challenge…just to prove your own self worth. So you squeeze yourself into a human facsimile like a perverted version of Halloween.

Monster, how dare you look like me?
Masquerading as my reflection in the mirror. Controlling my actions by plucking on marionette strings by the names of envy and insecurity.
You thrive in the dark…always leaving me on a search for happiness I just can’t seem to find. You always insist on hiding it in the deepest corners of my existence so by design, I would spend my next lifetimes looking for it. Malevolent and cunning to the core, and when you speak…it reeks so strongly of sin and brimstone that it could make God cringe. Angels on the bus avoid you on instinct, and what was once beautiful wilts at your touch. I refuse to eat or drink, afraid that I would vomit more sin into the world because I can’t stomach how similar we are. Your behaviour sickens me.
Monster, how dare you walk like me, talk like me? Breathe the same air as me?
Monster, how dare you steal my innocence?
So to everyone the monster on top my bed has hurt, I’m sorry.
I’m sorry I’m too much alike every person that’s ever hurt you. I’m sorry that I never cared enough. Or that I cared too much. I’m sorry that I didn’t turn out to be the person that you wanted me to be.
So every time I look into your eyes, it’s torture. It torments me because I never wanted to be like you. Monster…why do you make me shoulder all the blame for what you’ve done?
So ever since then I’ve worked shifts of broken promises and contracts with strangers trying to send you back to where you came from. But even if I succeeded…another one would just take your place. Because the world is full of monsters like you.

IHateGirls!

I HATE GIRLS!
I mean…I don’t hate all of them.
Just those…those hella complicated ass girls.
I mean those...
you could try for a life time and never even slightly understand them ass girls.

And those…

Those stupid ass girls.
Those wear 3D glasses around the mall ass girls.
Those other girl has something they want so they start hating ass girls.
Those make a big deal out of nothing ass girls.
Those try so hard to be noticed but never get a mention ass girls.
Those got a Formspring account but never get a mention ass girls.
Those on Tumblr all day reblogging the same crap ass girls.
Those never go anywhere unless they’re in a pack ass girls.
Those wear leggings and tights as pants ass girls.
Those wasting their time dating assholes and douchebags ass girls.
Those post pictures saying they’re ugly while fishing for compliments ass girls.
Those thinking they’re the shit ass girls.
Those thinking they’re worth shit ass girls.
Those expect guys to do everything for them ass girls.
Those think they’re drunk after taking one sip of alcohol ass girls.
Those put the worthwhile guys in the friend zone ass girls.
Those can’t let go of their ex after forever ass girls.
Those boots with the fur ass girls….well, I don’t really mind them.
Those never stop talking ass girls.
Those never start talking ass girls.
Those Facebook status updates of song lyrics ass girls.
YEAH! Those “Can we pretend that airplanes in the night skies are like shooting stars ‘cos I could really use a wish right now” ass girls!

I hate those girls…
But I haven’t even gotten to the girls I really hate.
I mean I just hate those…

Those think they have to show skin to be noticed type girls.
Those got a lot to say but too shy to voice their thoughts type girls.
Those think they’re fat because their dress size is an actual number type girls.
Those beautiful soul but get passed in the halls type girls.
Those want something great to happen but aren’t willing to take a chance type girls.
Those quick to believe gossip but will never believe a compliment type girls.
Those gave up on what they want because society said differently type girls.
Those perfectly fine but completely insecure type girls.
Those won’t eat because they don’t want to be seen as fat type girls.
Those stopped believing in love because of one bad experience with an asshole type girls.

But just to get it straight, I don’t hate every girl.
Just most of them. Thank you.

WhyDoYouBelieveCosmeticsCompainesAndNotMe?

Okay, I get it.

You put on layers of make up to make up for the fact that you can’t get your mind made up on who you really want to be. So you put on that mask made of mascara and foundation on your face, meaning that the foundation of your confidence is built on water and oil.

But we all know oil and water don’t mix, so it’s BP’s job to start cleaning off the fish.

‘Cos there’s something fishy going on here…

You treat every outing with your girlfriends as a photo-op, knowing damn well you won’t post one of yourself without a little Photoshop. Not knowing if people like you for what your momma gave you, or maybe it’s Maybelline.

Because the entire cosmetics industry is built on telling girls they’re ugly. Either they’re not pretty enough, not skinny enough, not curvy enough or that your eyelashes need to be 120% longer or else you’re not as pretty as you could be.
That if you eat, you eat too much. That your body don’t look right without silicone tits, a flat stomach and Kim Kardhashian’s badonkadonk.

So you conceal your insecurities with concealers, fighting signs of aging because you relate wrinkles to looser skin. Afraid your mask will fall off, while wishing you could just lose your skin and just be seen for what’s inside, as the strings on your mask begin to loosen and we see you more for who you really are.

A girl. Just like any other, hoping she could stand out. So she wears lipstick the same shade as bright rose petals to frame the words that escape from her lips. An attempt to hook a gentleman that wouldn’t mind getting intimate as he pays attention to her intellect, so she feigns confidence in her high heels. Hoping to turn finding a mate into a game of inches granted by the stiletto at her heels. Because everyday she walks on daggers and egg shells, afraid to lose the façade because she doesn’t fit the mold.

But I don’t care if you don’t look like a movie star.

Because they are not real women. They are fictitious creations molded by a man behind a desk with pen and paper with his own idea of what somebody should look like. So girls everywhere believe the lies…because they see it on their TV screens

That they’re not pretty enough, not skinny enough, not curvy enough…not plastic enough. That it’s wrong to be real…

That Jersey Shore is better to look at than, that girl sitting in the corner of the room reading a book. That tanned orange skin somehow makes you think less Willy Wonka oompa loompas and more of a lifestyle spent in gyms. That reality shows are what’s good and that reality shows our real flaws and it’s not acceptable.

Because we have to look perfect…the way nobody really is.
So you continue hiding behind your mask, so perfectly crafted by manufacturers to convince you that you…don’t want to be you anymore.
Because you take compliments with a grain of salt but take anything negative to heart like it was fact.

So miss, you’re ugly because you let them convince you are.

It’s not the shape you’re in, or how your genes dictated way your face is arranged that make you beautiful. It’s cliché to state the fact but it’s what lies behind the cover of the book that keeps a reader interested.

So if you never believe a compliment…you’re hideous for not letting your beautiful soul shine through.

AListOfThingsYouMadeMeRethink

I remember falling in love with a girl that wanted to change the world.
So in comparison, whatever I did was never enough.
I told her I’d change how she saw the world, but that was a bluff
But I could never give her the true answer she was in search of to allow her to cure cancer.
I wrote poems for her…but that didn’t help with the AIDS epidemic.
I wrote a song for her…but that didn’t deliver food to starving children.
Whatever I did, there was a problem it didn’t solve…especially one.
There was the problem that...I just wanted to hold her hand and that never happened.
So she made me feel like shit.
But in the end she made me better.
Always striving for perfection to please her, looking for acceptance.
Though through those months I learned some things.

1. Nothing I did for you was ever enough. No matter how hard I tried to relate to your goals, how I tried to get along with your friends, or how hard I tried to understand you…you weren’t having that. You never noticed how hard I tried...so screw you.
2. I will never write another love song. And now I have more of a reason other than the fact that I can't sing.
3. You never really liked me back.
4. I hate that feeling when your leg falls asleep and you struggle to stand up.
5. I know the last one didn’t make sense but that was you and me. I fell for you…hard and you weren’t there. So the only thing that ended up happening was me stumbling and looking stupid.
6. I was stupid for liking you as long as I did….I hate you.
7. I was right about 3. You never really liked me back.
9. I skipped 8 because I remember you telling me it was your favourite number. And so were you, but that was once upon a time and now I can’t see the number 8 without thinking of you…thanks a lot.
10. I was way too nice to you. I gave you everything I could that you never asked for. Because now I realize that girls just want what they can’t have. They want a challenge, so I should have played hard to get. Why did no one tell me that!?
11. Without a shadow of a doubt you made me better.
12. So that makes me wonder that if we met now, instead of back then…maybe we would be together.
13. The fact that you didn’t like me made me realize what I had to change about myself. And because of that I get girls now. (I’m lying, no I don’t.)
14. I hate you.
15. As much as I hate you now, I have to thank you for being more than just another girl. Not even an ex-girlfriend…but an inspiration to change.

So I’m sorry if you never get to change the world.
But here’s the consolation prize. You changed me for good and until now, I thought that was just as hard.

AClichePoemUsingTheStarsAndShit

Promise me you won’t think any less of me for what I’m about to say.
For all of my transparent attempts at getting closer to you through past and recent events, but in my defense…I don’t think I had a choice in the matter.
While I’m probably nothing amidst your first, your exes, your future boyfriends, and the one man you might potentially marry…I’m not sorry. Not sorry for being one of the many bridges you crossed and burned to go from your past to your future.
Even if our time was wasted, may it be days, weeks, months, or years…I do not regret it in the least.

Because you see, I could say with every fibre of my being that no matter how brief…you were my sunshine. But way past cliche metaphors, you're closer to stars and supernovas.
The way your smile reflects prisms of light and double rainbows, even sometimes starting to look like a triple rainbow…
Now the night never gets too dark and lonely anymore...like it used to.
The warmth you emit, tingles skin on fingertips leaving palms sweaty and electricity tap dancing on nerve endings.
It reminds me... the best parts what it feels like to be human.
Staring into the depths of the brown in the stroma in your iris, even past closed eyelids, is as close to infinity as I’ll ever get…yet I don’t mind in the slightest.
From the twinkle in your eyes resembling far gone constellations, to your pale complexion reminiscent of the moon. I will fight through black holes for you who are beyond ethereal, beyond celestial…taking meteor showers in the morning and wearing the rings of Saturn as jewelry during dinner in the evening.
They say the eyes are the window to one’s soul, and in yours I see the cosmos.
Reaching for signals like orbiting satellites, orbiting your curves like axis and gravitational pulls. You pull me in closer…I’m attracted to you like polar opposites of north and south while I align planets through phrases by word of mouth.
No more wishing that airplanes were shooting stars like annoying pop musicians, because everything I ever wanted is right next to me. Everything in your heavenly body that tiptoes the fine line between where the earth and the heavens meet.

Until the day we refuse to recognize what once was, like Pluto as a planet…I’m not sorry. Not sorry for being one of the many bridges you crossed and burned to go from your past to your future. Even if our time was wasted, may it be days, weeks, months, or years…I do not regret it in the least. Because in my mind, what we have will stretch til infinity…and beyond.

FelixFelicis.

They say love is like magic…if that’s the case, then heartbreak is a curse... and I guess I’d be the Boy Who Lived. Living in a cupboard under the stairs seeking your attention…or maybe even some affection just as long as it was coming from your direction.

‘Cos every second I spend without you is much worse than the Cruciatus, now for the next 2 minutes I’ll be completely honest. I always thought we were destined, like Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger…that we shared the deepest connection like cores shared between wands and phoenix feathers. Trying to deduce a way, magical or not that we could be closer. And if I had to describe how you make me feel…wingardium leviosa. Or maybe a dose of Felix Felicis. Because it must be illegal to feel this good from something you don’t have. When I see you…you’ve got me stupefied, jinxed into silence with jelly legs. Stuck in place like petrificus totalus and basilisk glares. In an instant, I have no fear of harm. Think of your smile…then Patronus charm. So I’m standing here, hoping I could tell you that the back of your head is RIDDIKULUS, like banishing monsters in closets…but I’m confunded. Worse than confused, ‘cos you’re sweeter than Honeydukes and I want to Time Turner every moment I ever spent with you.

I’m trying to alohamora the lock to your heart, wishing I could reducto the walls you’ve built around it so that the chase would be over like Seekers in Quidditch games. If it was ever broken…then reparo. If that doesn’t work, then spellotape and protego. Protect it with vigilance like goblins in Gringotts, constantly trying to get to know you better through your SIM card. Until the day that you let me into your Chamber of Secrets…and I could be the diary that replies back at the times you’re the weakest. For you, I would swim to the deepest depths of the darkest lake, past merfolk and grindylows. Fight past mythical creatures and fire breathing dragons with no championship to be aiming for. You are my Triwizard Champion, but with no one else in contention. So I feel obligated to mention…

You have me effectively disarmed and I’m under your spell…that’s clear as nighttime strolls in invisibility cloaks. And all I ask is that you put on the Sorting Hat, hoping that it tells you that you belong...in my house. ‘Cos I would sacrifice for you, similar to Dumbledore. Be the general of this man’s army and we can last forever like Nicolas Flamel and Sorcerer’s Stones. More than a timeline of all seven books, if each one was a horcrux made to keep us together…but better. So get the healers to lock me up in St. Mungo’s, because I am love sick. No potion can cure me, and what you’ve used is closer to the dark arts. But I’m willing to take the gamble like Exploding Snap with card sharks. So clearly, I’m see-through, almost feeling Nearly Headless. So I confess this all without veritaserum hoping that I won’t regret this. So I'm trying to find the Marauder's map to your soul…

“I solemnly swear that I am up to no good”. Because I’m trying to steal your heart and provide a bandage…and if I ever succeed, then “mischief managed.”

IStillDon'tLoveYou..

At the time it seemed absurd, and I thought I just misheard when she told me that she loved me. Then I had to fight the urge, to repeat the same words that I knew she was expecting from me. So I mustered up the nerve, gave her the truth that she deserved and so I told her I don’t love you. But it’s not that I don’t love you, not that I can’t love you, it’s more of the fact that I don’t want to.

But this isn’t an apology, more like a request to be an anomaly. To take “love” and define it on our own terms. ‘Cos currently, I know there’s something wrong with me when I can write a definition like it’s homework. At this rate, it’s closer to make believe. But I’d turn Christopher Reeves, wear my heart on my sleeve, like Toronto players and a maple leaf. A cliché definition is all we’re really left with and I hate it. ‘Cos you alone make me feel like…some word that hasn’t even been invented yet…I’m infloveuated.

Because making up a word is my only option. ‘Cos love is now casual, thrown around with no need to be factual, and destroyed its original intent like antitoxin. So going by those standards, I bear my gold standard and say that I still can’t love you. But I would exchange eloquent banter, until I get shot down like Jordan Manners and I regret never having said I loved you…But the word is already dead to me. Though I’d repeat it for the sake of having more time with you, to convince you even just in passing through, that to me you’re beyond heavenly. Though I still can’t love you.

See, those who have ‘loved’ and have ‘been loved’ have already been through enough…They’ve been misused, mistreated, misunderstood, abused and ignored and dragged through the rough…patches of relationships. Through the rocky roads and nights spent in the solace of cookies and cream courtesy of Oreos and a broken heart. Crying with a runny nose, left only with tissues and tears when the relationship falls apart. So that’s why I just can’t love you…

But I must admit, you’re hard to quit ‘cos you’re the best thing that’s happened to me, since the day that I discovered poetry. Tryna catch signs, dodging landmines, forgetting there was a time when you didn’t come first for me. But you’re closer to my life line, try to cut mine…your scissors break like in Hercules. I don’t want to be your lover…I want to be more like the best of friends. ‘Cos in relationships, all it takes is one mistake for the best to end. And the words “I love you” won’t be enough for these two hearts and the rest to mend. And as your bestest friend, I’ll hold your heart next to mine in a chest with the best defense. But secretly, I just want to have a future with you. Regardless of the relationship we’d share for the years to come, now I’m seeming dumb, ‘cos I was the one there for you when you were back on the market in a game of one, that no one’s won.

So forget labeling affection, it only leads in misdirection, so trust that I’d avoid saying that line at all. Even with appropriate exclamation, it’s all in the interpretation of those 3 words that defines it all. I. Love. You.
3 words that only matter as much as it does to those involved. And trust me when I say it…‘cos it means I’d catch you every time you fall, answer the phone every time you call and share a personal moment with you from across the hall. But that doesn’t mean everyone else feels the same, yet I’d risk the potential pain, for all the potential gain, even when our backs are against the wall.

If only I could read your mind…I would ask if you were willing to help me redesign the term. See I don’t love you. I…can’t love you. And I don’t want to. You see…I’m already infloveuated.

Ms.Interpretation

Love. The one and only weakness of a Disney made Hercules. And this narcissistic juggernaut with too much certainty. At first I had no fear, till I ran into my dear, like the bumper of a van. Studied all that I could glean, from what little I could see like a lover of exams. But damn…

Compared to these girls that I’ve come across lately…she has me thinking maybe. Because never did she make me, pledge my allegiance to a singular. Just proud to be there like the parents of a winner. Yet me, I’m nothing but a sinner. Dowsing propane on the fires of hell, and crafting analogies and stories for these liars to tell. But the truth is still amongst them. And quickly it becomes them.

See, I love her…with all my heart. Every muscle, every beat. Every vessel, every ventricle. It doesn’t add up, but for her…I’d learn pi to a thousand some decimals, just to impress her. ‘Cos my life would seem lesser, if my life had less her.
And in her very own words, she designed. The prettiest of pictures. Like popular verses out of scripture, she had my attention.

She said…

That if I took her hand, she would lead me on the path to success. Closer to an angel, but a temptress no less. She’d protect me from the pain that would live inside my chest, if another human being ever put me to the test. And this sudden lack of rest, has me flirting with the most attractive relative of death. Though I fear if I let her hand go, then I’d Van Gogh myself.

So she whispered in my ear…
That I would be her man and that she could be my muse. She’d quote nothing but the truth, so I wouldn’t be a mute. With my voice and my words, she advised that I let myself be heard, and to never let another person estimate my worth. I looked her in her eyes and I asked her.

“Who are you?”
She said “I’m in your heart and your mind.”
“Are you God?”
She said “I don’t know…just reflect and determine what’s inside your soul.”

So I looked up above me to an image of her face with her name underneath it…Miss Interpretation. The partner I’ve been blessed with so I can study what’s around me…so I take her hand in mine and I thank her that she found me.

Somethin'Wrong

Tell me you ain’t with that dude on your side
And I don’t mean this to be rude when I rhyme…but
Tell me you ain’t doing that dude on your side
If it’s true then there’s something going wrong around here.

She got a thing for them white boys. You know...thin, emo, tight clothes. Looking uncomfortable like they're walking on a tight rope. And I’m wondering, when she’s gonna see the light, ‘cos none of these hipsters, are ever gonna treat her right. Seriously, you’re kidding me…’Cos really g? You think he’s so appealing in his neon green, skinny jeans? And most definitely his style is in question, because there’s gotta be something, wrong if his v-neck reach the bottom of his belly button. Is your type really guys that steal the swag of Justin Bieber? Or maybe it’s the shoes…I mean, maybe I have to be a hypebeast, start rocking Nike’s, with a clean fit white tee…then I could get a girl to like me. I mean, I’m honestly sorry that I don’t look like someone out of Twilight. But you see, I’m not the type to white lie, but for every girl I’m the farthest from the right type. Instead…I work to be that highlight, when you reflect on your day by your nightlight, forget about a nightlife I’ll spend my 10 o’clock’s tryna handwrite, a message out to you hoping that in hindsight, you change your preferences for the nice guy.

Tell me you ain’t with that dude on your side
And I don’t mean this to be rude when I rhyme…but
Tell me you ain’t doing that dude on your side
If it’s true then there’s something going wrong around here.

If it ain’t them then she’s into those artist types. You know, Nikon’s and flashing lights. Playing guitars singing songs they write…just to feed the hype. And just because of that, girls think they’re super nice…Then maybe I should learn to sing and sit in front of a camera. Pluck strings, just sing and hope that some girl out there will fall for an amateur. But if that’s the case, I ain’t mad at cha. ‘Cos I’m thinking maybe it works for poets too, though compared to these guys I’m 0-2. Then there’s jocks and thugs too, so tell me what the hell am I supposed to do? ‘Cos when I see girls like you, I start getting butterflies. Then I think to myself, what ever happened to the funny guy, the friend that listens to you all the time, or the type of dude that’s just kinda shy? Guys that just get pushed aside…then y’all complain the good guys are in short supply!? ‘Cos I understand that preference can be accountable, and finding Mr. Right is a different kind of animal, but you're dating a guy with the ego of 20 cantaloupes, that's just plain horny...antelope, a douche in Abercrombie & Fitch gear, cocky ass dudes the opposite of sincere, now I’m not hating but there’s something wrong with this shit here.

Tell me you ain’t with that dude on your side
And I don’t mean this to be rude when I rhyme…but
Tell me you ain’t doing that dude on your side
If it’s true then there’s something going wrong around here.

See those kinds of guys, are alright but girls only see what they act like…they’re cast members. But in actuality, they’re probably ass wipes…with bad tempers. But getting y’all to see what I see…I probably have a better chance at beating up Brock Lesnar, going to China and slow dancing with the last emperor, getting Bob Marley to chant white power with some clan members or catching a Squirtle and teaching it the attack Ember.
Because I’ve learned that I’m usually Ned Flanders, the TOO nice type. And ever since my first rhyme, I’ve spent way too much time, trying to get a verse right. ‘Cos on stage and on the tracks I’m like Raiden from Mortal Kombat, Atilla the Hun riding in from horseback, tsunamis and tornadoes on the forecast, and repeatedly getting kicked in the ballsac. But with girls I’m more like cold lemonade on a sunny day, chick flicks on a Saturday starring Anne Hathaway, and phone conversations at 4AM staying wide awake.
But when I meet that girl so perfect she could make heaven wait, and thinking about her almost makes me levitate, I always seem hesitate like a midget taking on a heavyweight. Then she has me down in with a line like limbo, killed the last chunk of my ego, traits left me feeling incomplete…Sisqo, so I took my nice guy attributes and threw them out the window.