a literal metaphor

Usually logic and emotion don't work together.
You either listen to your head or your heart.
Most people aren't balanced-- one or other holds sway,
and instead of being whole they only work with part.

I let emotion guide my rationality,
measuring decisions more with heart than mind,
but I'm decent at synthesizing both sides
and that's how I contrive to usually be kind.

You're a logical thinker, almost exclusively.
Getting swept up in emotion's not an issue for you.
You look at different angles to solve a problem,
and once you start a train of thought you tend to see it through.

So when you qualified "I love you" with "logically,"
and showed me the criteria, proofs, and facts,
I could see how your brain guided your heart
though both routes resulted in the same impact.

I fell in love with you like a bolt from the blue.
You deliberated over love more painstakingly,
but now we're both wearing the same silly smile.
Emotion and logic both got us where we need to be.

(or: a poem by Alastair Hazard on his companions, written for the lulz)

First I met Flint, with a keen and steady eye,
and a deadly trajectory to bullets he lets fly.
Then came Dave, with no limits to who he can be;
with his disguise kit you will only view who he wants you to see.
Lily was next, a femme fatale without compare,
with a sparkle in her eye and a wave in her hair.
In Italy we met Gianna, who's a daddy's girl,
but you don't want to be the target of a knife she hurls.
Hans we'd met before, in unfortunate conditions,
but in our group he occupies an important position.
And then there's myself, Alastair, who's terrific in a pinch,
and will save the day if you give me half an inch.
A marksman, two spies, a Mafia princess too,
a German officer and a scientist-thief-- who knows what we will do?

She gets inspiration right from the wellspring,
sipping ink out of her chipped teacup;
teeth stained by similes the pigmentation brings,
metaphors lingering on her tongue when she drinks them up.

She mixes blue and black like fragrant oolong,
and steeps it for hours at a rolling boil.
It’s a heady brew and she likes it strong,
the better to support long hours of toil.

The hot liquid flows between parted lips
and burns her up from stomach to skin,
then channels through to her fingertips
and the words pour out from deep within.

Ink-drinking allows her to bypass the muses
and be productive whenever she chooses.

There’s a reason this door is locked.
If you were wise, you’d leave it alone.
The room is strong and made of stone
and inside is something not to be mocked.

But you think you’re clever with your lockpicks.
You trip the tumblers one by one
and turn the doorknob when you’re done,
forcing the door open when it sticks.

Tell me, what did you think you’d find?
Did you expect a reward for being bold?
A weapon, maybe? A tapestry to unfurl?
Did a wizard or a dragon come to mind?
Gold? Treasure? Riches untold?
All you’ve released is a brokenhearted girl.

I've started writing poetry in my sleep.
I only wish I could remember them when I wake.
Rhyme and meter are far easier to keep
when my subconscious works with me. I can take
all night to craft a perfect villanelle
or a sestina in a single dream,
but as soon as I wake up, I can't tell
what it is I wrote. So it would seem
my talents keep honing themselves all night
but not to my advantage in the morn.
Perhaps it's improving my insight!
Maybe forgetting shouldn't make me forlorn.
I know that poetry's my craft of choice
because even sleeping can't stifle my voice.

I have become a civilized creature again.
The beast within my breast has curled up to sleep.
I never thought I'd regain my senses when
being near you was all that could keep
me happy-- or not happy, but as close as I got.
Congratulations. Now we're both free
from these shackles my stupid heart wrought.
My smiles are not your responsibility--
not that you ever claimed they were,
not that this beast laid its claws into you,
not that you heard its roar. I prefer
to be the only one it almost slew.
I love you still, but with a love that is sedate.
The beast has given up. For you, I'll wait.

Sunday afternoons are the highlight of my week
when it's companionship and caffeine that I seek.
On those dreary afternoons it's lonely to be me,
I join my friends in Fac Par to share a cup of tea.
My tea-making kit is getting rather excessive,
though to have twelve kinds of tea could be thought progressive.
Having six different kinds of chai might be ridiculous,
but each variety has a unique flavor that's delicious.
We sit around, play Scrabble, sip tea and chat,
and sometimes someone will show off pictures of her cat.
Black tea, herbal tea, oolong and white,
each type of tea is its own sort of delight.
Don't knock it till you've tried it-- teatime is such fun!
I wish I could share a cup of tea with everyone.

She's got a set routine to go to bed:
brush hair and teeth, don pajamas, take a pill,
then on the pillow rest her weary head
and lie there for hours, waiting, feeling ill
as time ticks by and sleep eludes her still,
wishing for unconsciousness to claim her.
If only sleeping were a matter of will!
She tosses and turns, can't help but to stir.
The hours between twelve and three are a blur
of restlessness and unfulfilled hope of sleep.
Every night these events recur.
She shuts her eyes, resorts to counting sheep.
Eventually sleep will come on soft tiptoes
and quiet down her thoughts of these and those.

Kill you? Don't be so obvious, my dear.
You'll die someday, and maybe at my hand,
but it won't be today, next week, or year.
I'm having too much fun, just as I planned.
Torture? Yes, that guess is far more apt.
You see, my goal here is to hear you scream.
Don't try to be brave-- you're securely trapped.
Don't try to wake up, girl, this is no dream.
That pretty face and all your girlish wiles
are what have led you here to meet your fate.
The sight of you right now could evoke smiles;
hours with my knives your beauty will negate.
Feel free to cry. You'll hurt yourself with tears.
I'm not a witch, sweet thing. I am your fears.

It's peace that lets you know you've been disturbed;
it's calm that lets you know the storm is coming.
Without comfort, you can't know you're perturbed,
without ease you can't feel the pain that's numbing.
Don't trust the stillness: it will never last,
although you cling to it with trembling fingers.
All too soon, what's good will be what's past,
for chaos and regret are all that lingers.
Enjoy the peace, but please don't be mistaken,
don't think that it will last beyond the day.
Don't rely on calm: you'll be forsaken.
Can't you see the storm is here to stay?
You can trust in pain and cloudy skies,
for sweetness, light, and sunshine are all lies.