The Wordsmith

He writes me poems and spoon-feeds me them like I'm starving or I'm poor. I’m still full from the ones he served for breakfast, but they taste so good I make room… “just one more.”
I don’t want to hear or listen but try as I might I just can’t say no... I don’t know why or what it is about his pretty words that capture me so.
Perhaps it’s the way he hand picks them carefully for me, like flowers… or the way they fall upon my ears in soft and soothing showers.
My hands are cuffed in objectifications and personifications guard the doors… my ears bursting under the pressure of booming onomatopoeia whilst my mouth is sealed by super-glue metaphors.
But as well as he can write my lover paints too, he’s had this talent for a while… he finds a way to dry my tears with his words and cover over my sad with a smile.
He who is the master of seduction. I know not who I am, only that I am his...
He is my beautiful liar. I belong to the Wordsmith.