Writing is like falling in love; scary, stunning, difficult, amazing, big sweeping gestures, and falling from a plane... but it's worth it.

bubblegum popping
you reminded me of sin
with scent sickly sweet

writing poetry, for me, has become like a eating disorder.
although instead of consuming,
i'm the one producing.

each day i strive for this unattainable image,
this glorified idea of what i might become,
and the parasite in my brain grows.

i force my finger down my throat,
causing words to come bubbling up.
and each time they are more vile than the last,
a sour odor wafting from them.

my mouth burns from the acid but it tastes like victory.
because at least i created something.
and i leave my poetry there to rot,
refusing to admit i have a problem.

too blind to understand that each time i do this i'm slowly killing myself.
i'm hungry for something that can sustain me,
but i reject every antidote.

i'm going to write all over my body,
show you the stories upon the heart
inside my sleeve
i love books so much i'll become one,
just for you;
you can turn the pages with the tips of your
fingers and  read between the lines-
just for you, i'll open up my cover without fear
of being torn apart,
you can add your own writings,
i want our stories to interwine.
i'll let you press your lips to the bones inside my spine,
skip the pages, go back and re-read my lines;
you can hold me in your hands
or throw me against the wall.

i know i can be cryptic and maybe i ask too much,
ocassionally i talk in metaphors,
give you hints about the story inside my skin
but i also know you love that most about me;
i make turns and twist the plot just as i please
to appease the hunger you hold when i'm a tease.

i won't let you put me down,
have you entranced and falling deeper,
forget the sleep, the night will be for reading-
you'll crave me like an addict, desperate for
the next line.

come,
let me write on my body,
explore the passages inside me,
i'll keep you guessing, searching for the ending
but i know i won't write you one,
this is the one of you and I;
our one thousand and one nights.

"I have to unlove you a little," the girl said as she put her pen down.
He replied: why would you ever?
"I have to save my love for you; I have to save it for future days."
He frowned. "It sounds like you're saying goodbye. As if one day your feelings for me will disappear because of having loved me too much this very moment."
She shook her head. "I don't think I'll ever stop loving you though, if I give you just small amounts of it everyday. But you, would you still be the same, even if I cut down on the amount I usually give per day?"
He understood where she was going. "As long as you give me love, even down to the tiniest drop of it, I'll still love you all the same. And when you run out of it and can give no more, that's when I'll refill you with all the love you have filled me up with after all this time."
"One can never really run out of love, can they? Give or take. It's still love."
"Love is love-- give or take, small or big; doesn't matter as long as it exists-- if it's you I'm loving."

so many thoughts were
racing through his mind
when his eyes met hers.
green. jewels. she was
sitting underneath a
tree, the leaves a pretty
golden color. in her soft
hands was a single red
leaf. she twirled it ‘round.
it was the red of her cheeks.

she wore a white cotton
dress and brown hat; her
hair thick and messy. his
burning cigarette still
between his fingers, like
in a trance, he approached
her cross-legged figure, the
yellow above her like a halo.
he thought her an angel
and his heart leapt.