If humans are a work of art
Then women are by far the masterpiece
There is none like them
And there never will be
When she loves...
She loves in a manner no one ever can
When she gets angry she displays it in a manner only she can
She multi-tasks so effortlessly
She gives a proper meaning to our lives
She supports us through every thick and thin
She fights for us when the need arises
She completes us from every aspect of our lives
She is the personification of sacrifice
The epitome of love
The embodiment of resilience
The symbol of hope
She doesn't want diamonds or rubies
All she wants is that you love her,value her,respect her and support her
She just wants some of your time
She just likes to be made to feel special every now and then
She just wants to be appreciated every now and then
She is a mother,a grandmother,an aunt,a sister,a cousin,friend,girlfriend or a wife
Treat her well
For without them you are nothing
Without them no home is complete

A big thank you to women all over the world
We men would be nowhere without you in our lives
If not for women then
Whom would we dream about?
Whom would be woo?
Whom would we write poems about?
Whom would we write songs about?

This drug that I can't stop soaking in
After the first dose, I watched my universe change from within
It was a feeling that sent me to oblivion
Every emotion mashed in a massive collision

I am addicted and only want more
of this truly fascinating feeling
I look into my life and it seems like everything but poor
Everything else is so bland in the dealing

I crave this drug everyday
Every single hour and minute
with this to say
You are this drug, and I need it.

my handwriting changed
after you left.

now, it runs rightwards
as the words strive to
escape my pen.

now, any letters that
stand upright
are left so very empty.

now, the ink i use is blue
because i needed a break
from the black-and-white
i used to live.

now, i showed someone else
the things i'd written
for you.

she told me my words
could be beautiful,
even if i only write
in the margins of
old books.

my letters dance, now.
just another thing
that changed after you left.

(they are still not enough
to tell the paper what i hurt.)

(they are still not enough
for my forgotten regrets.)