I love poetry. I love it because the writer can be writing about something completely abstract and the reader may never know or come to find out what the origin of the poem came from or was for. A poem can appear to be blatently about one thing, yet can acutally be referring to something completely unknown to the surface reader. Anyways, here's a poem. You'll probably have no idea what it's about. Or, you may read it and think you know, but really, you won't. And how could you, unless you were inside my brain?:

You silly old thing!

Well, young thing for now.

Soon one day,

you might make your father proud.

You've got a bit of wisdom

packed in that curious brain of yours,

and to others, mostly all,

you're a "keeper" to the core.

But to me (who am I

but a wanderer just like you?)

you're a little on the early side

of commitment through and through.

So how shall I repsond

to such advances as last evening?

My heart is a bit unsure,

And my mind is ever pining.

You see, it takes a while

for my heart to appreciate

even those who come so purely,

having no intentions to debate.

And to add to such intricacies,

to add to the web here laid,

I really only come to love

affections dully made.

It takes a while,

a bit of time,

to mature and turn into

something worth investing in.

Should I invest in you?

Who knows?

I don't

As of now.

How could I?