If I carved the words "I love you"
into every inch of my skin,
would you believe them?
Would you believe me?

If I painted a picture of my heart
with the very blood that it pumps,
would you cherish it?
Would you cherish me?

If I promised that there was no one else,
that there was only you,
would you accept that?
Would you accept me?

It is snowing today...
How fitting.
You came in and took me like a blizzard,
Left me in awe,
Blew me around,
Showed me your love,
And I showed you mine.

But you blew away, left.
Remnants of you remain,
Clean,
Pure,
Beautiful.
Then, contaminated,
Polluted,
And finally,
Gone.

Her temple is beating against her brain much harder than it should be
As she lays in that hospital bed and counts the stitches on her best friend's eye
As if they are stars forming constellations in the sky over the sea.
She pulls at her hair, wishing her head would stop pounding.
But what if it wasn’t pounding?
What if that ***** in her chest stopped pounding against her ribs?
She cannot see that it is the only other likely outcome of such a disastrous night.
She can’t thank god for the chaos in her life
Despite the fact that it is the only thing keeping her alive.
This chaos is the recipe that is being pumped into that IV
Through her veins
And to her beating heart,
Keeping that ******* pulse beating heavily
Against her beautiful mind
That sees scars as constellations
In the sky over the sea.

Whispering the solace,
whistling the blues,
whittling tears.

.
A poet's heart isn't like any other...
It's the tears that trickle with radiance through words.
     It's a treasure trove that hides but longs to
     be found.
          It's a book shelved high that wants to
          be read.
               It's the freest of all birds caged but
               unbound...

A poet's heart isn't like any other...
It doesn't beat to the capable strokes of the artist.
     It doesn't pump in the most vibrant of
     colours.
          It doesn't wield a paintbrush to
          translate its thoughts.
               But it can see through the eyes of
               painters...

A poet's heart isn't like any other...
It doesn't conform to the conventional parameters of lyrics.
     It doesn't bind itself to the requirements
     of musical harmony.
          It doesn't follow the conventions of
          genres.
               But it sings its voice loud without
               restrictions of melody...

A poet's heart isn't like any other...
It's an open secret, that whispers in metaphoric codes.
     It's an exploding universe, that merges
     back into galaxies.
          It's a sought after painting, that boasts
          of unfathomable beauty.
               It's an everlasting song, that echoes
               within the poet that embodies...

Gentle drops of Love
Slide down my heart
The foggy waterfall grows
When the drops gather in one.

The reflection
Of the crystal clear lake
Which resides at the bottom
Of the heart in tears
Is formed in the retina
Of the lucid eyes.

The lake is icy and cold
When the drops are frozen
To melt again in the warmth
Under the tears of Love.