I feel sick
when my eyes meet yours,
not contempt,
yet just an open door.
I don't know exactly what you expect,
as for me,
I experienced everything but regret.
I stutter,
afraid of what to say.
Words of mine
are not as soft as clay.
Hazel maps,
what they are to your soul.
My brown eyes
are simply glass windows.
Confident
is what I appear to be.
Give it time,
and certainly you shall see,
what it is
to be around the real me.
Silver-tongued
is how I tend to speak.
In riddles I communicate effectively,
yet your eyes are obstacles to my designs.
Certainly,
it is to my great surprise;
amazingly,
I can pretend not to care.
In the end
though, it all comes to bare.
Upper-hand
is what I think I have,
but my heart
is what you've ultimately grabbed.