I find it very strange
how we are all made
from the same elements
formed out of stardust
shaped bones covered in skin
so how come
some girls are pretty

And I'm not

He's thinking about
His book.
And how he's going to write her into it.
She's a shelf that doesn't hold anything
But a few memories here and there
And some day dreams.
Her eyes sting
And her voice just sort of floats above everything else.
Like a sheet of clouds on a hot July morning.
There's really no place to acknowledge a power so fierce
Using just the ink from a couple of pens.
But he's going to try to capture the way her lungs give out
During long drives down busy highways
And her dark glasses always seem to be locked forward.
Her toes curl in her flip-flops
And she never opens her mouth too wide.
How can words describe someone
That only the pounding of a heart can imagine?

Don't ask me what I see in him because
I do not know the answer to that question,
It's the way he says my name ,
the way he brings out every vowel and consonant.
It is the huskiness in his voice,
the melody in his tone.
It may be the way he smiles,
how his lips curve when he opens his mouth,
how his lips feel when they press against mine.
No, It's his compelling eyes,
they seem to get me to do anything he pleases
like, going down on my knees and...
Yeah, it's his hands,
the feeling I get when they brush against my skin.
it is his arms.
The way he holds me tight
when I'm feeling down or cold.
it is probably his scent
the way I can smell him from a distance
and then get all jumpy inside.
It is how he makes me come,
over on Friday nights and we watch movies
even though he knows how much I hate movies.
It is because he asks me how I'm doing
and actually cares.
It is the way he tickles me
and it actually does not hurt.
It is actually because he makes me feel alive.
He makes me feel like I'm human.

You are poetry;
I can see it in the jagged lines that run across your forehead,
I see it in your sad forced smiles-
And your curled fingers with your soul dipped ink dripping down your hand
You are covered in poetry so beautiful
But all you see is a broken girl
With a haunting past of a daddy that abandoned you
And an ex boyfriend who broke your heart
You think 'attempted suicide' is stamped across your forehead
But ****, you're the most beautiful thing I've seen
And your body is the most beautiful poetry I've read

I am not a writer.
I am not good with words,
I cannot speak up for myself,
It is my pen that bleed words.
No amount of convincing can give me conviction.
No amount of clarification can make that distinction.
Please refrain from using titles.

I am not a writer.
I am just a dreamer,
Dreaming dreams of inverted galaxies
Where complexities are reduced to simplicity,
And maybe love wouldn't be so complicated.
I dream of a world where I'll be unchained and liberated,
Because currently freedom is hard to go by.

I am not a writer.
I am just another over thinker,
I stay up all night disassembling the world,
So I can put it back together.
Adding new features that I think will make it better
I get lost in thoughts, and day-mares, fantasies and others,
I obsess and I always suffer.

I am not a writer.
Though sometimes I am photographer,
Snapping,
Close ups and selfies of my terrible mind.
Giving glints of places you won't usually find,
All because I write sometimes.

You ever had someone to share your love with and then they got taken away from you?
Is it some sort of a forbidden love?
I mean, to you, she's a daisy
No flaws, nothing is worth pointing out as faulty
Short, petite thighs, A-cup *****, small waist, nice *****
Everything you've ever wanted in a woman
The unexplainable beauty
All them long texts and phone calls
No quarrels, just honey moon phase
Counting stars from different locations, but still felt the warmth...
It's love, I guess...

“And if you call me at 4 am, too sad to even say hello, I will listen to your silence until you fall asleep. If you need to cry I will not wipe your tears away because you are only human and sometimes tears are as close to laughter as you can get and that’s okay. If you get sleepy I will let you drool on my arm and I won’t laugh at you if you snore too loud. If you need to yell so hard that your voice cracks and your knees fail I will hold you up and yell with you. If you get so angry you punch your hands red I will ice your knuckles and tell you that wounds heal both inside and out, and just like the cold that is harsh and burning, I will always be the warmth to soothe you and make you feel better. I will love you.”