What happens when kings
Won't let you cultivate your garden?

A friendship, when built upon honest first
Impressions, sparks a sincere intercourse;
Which, neither putting forth a facade's mirth
Can be built with true knowledge's comfort.

Narcissism as defined by psychology
Is wanting to be loved.
Healthy ways of being in psychology
Is loving yourself.

I understand what a narcissist is.
Trust me, I do.
But, something about the definition seems stupid.

To want people to love you,
That is narcissistic.
To have the innate desire to love yourself
This is not narcissistic.

Let me reiterate.
It is narcissistic to want love.
It is not narcissistic to love yourself.

In other words,
It's healthier to love yourself
Than it is to be loved by others.

Let me reiterate:
Everyone are narcissists
And the ones who want love the most, 
Those are the ones who everyone say are sick.

How I wish it was your shadow
Which touched mine.
How I wish in every evening 
Glow, that you found me
And were secretly my shadow.

If at one moment, 
You stood behind, waiting for me.
All I had to do was ask for you,
And you'd appear.

Yet, I have said,
"Do not be..."
Because I do not want a shadow.
For when I ask for you,
You do not appear.
No... you do not appear.

Hope is in every woman
With that familiar face.
I see you everywhere.
In the neighbor
At the mall
On the computer screen
The author of a poem
When I am driving through the local towns.

There you are,
Your face,
And I think, "It is her
"And all I have to do is reach out for her."
Look. It is not you.
Your familiar face,
If I could just have just one of you.
But, it is not the face I want.
No. It is you.
I find you on several dozen faces,
And each of them I want.
At the state park,
At my desk in school,
At the retirement home where I volunteered.
Though, it is not you.
It never is.

I get into a bitter fight today
And I lose hope that you exist.
Because men complicate simple truths with obfuscated 
Legalities, and political points
And hard to swallow talking points.
All I want is you.
And yet, when I call,
As I always try to call,
You are gone.
You do not come when I call for you.
When I'm at the family picnic
I walk down to the wine cellar
And I imagine you walking in,
And introducing our children;
For our love was a secret.
Whatever reason.
But, I walk upstairs,
And you do not come.
And I drink my cup
And I look into it...
I know I'm not supposed to...
And I sigh.

O, I slept light
While I saw my succors,
My success,
Stolen from me in a dream.

I had worked hard
Yet another had received 
The profit of my labor:
Almost like the Preacher said.

I dreamt of it,
His riches,
His honor,
His glory,
His might.
Yet, it was with my words
That he won my Cup.

I am as yet still unknown.
Does this phantom lurk?
Is the doppelganger real?
The very man I have dreamt about?
Does the phantom truly exist?
While he feasts
Must I fast?
While he enjoys the stolen bread
Must I subsist upon only crumbs?