books aren't meant to be beautiful
impeccably pristine, high on a shelf
out of reach
of grimy little fingers

no bent pages
or slightly stained covers
from that coffee
you had last week

to do so is an injustice
like buying a ferrari
just to stash it away
in a garage for the
entirety of its life
until
it
inevitably
dies

books are meant to catch tears
or perhaps
drool
from staying up
for just a moment
too long
because
i just have to finish this
one last chapter
then i'll sleep
i
promise
zzz

Pressure, deadlines,
Trauma and stress,
Give me the weight of the world,
And I will carry it.

But as strong as I am,
I'm even more weak.
My strength is all surface,
But my weakness runs deep.

Inside I'm so fragile,
So please be aware,
Like glass, I break easily,
So handle with care.

Give me impossible jobs,
And I will fight through them all,
But if you throw a sharp word,
I will crumble and fall.

I'm strong but so weak,
I'm fragile, hard to reach,
My strength is thin, my weakness deep,
So please break in, but don't break me.

I remember he had the dreamiest eyes I could think of
They were as deep as that sultry voice of his
Well, a charming shade of brown
Ebony, to be more specific.
When he was out in the sunshine, I still remember how they used to glisten and sparkle
Overflowing with wetness which looked like warm liquid gold
Like an ocean of nostalgic summer waves, his eyes hid something.
So much. Another world, perhaps.
Whenever I tried to get to the core of his mysterious beauty, those lips used to curve into a smile gently .. slowly
Without notice, like how the sun rises up from under the horizon
******* out all the strength it took me to not touch him.
He was the Prince Charming on drugs, I'd say
A drunken Romeo at night with ripped off clothes
The love of his dreams is a crazy fantasy, he says
And he always messed up his fantasies so fine.
I would never forget how he asked me to stay away
How artistically he put it all together, trying not to hurt me
He used to say "love is unhealthy for me.."
How delicate and effortless he made it sound
Maybe he knew that anyone who looked deeper into his eyes,
beyond that beautiful brown, would fall for him.
And fortunately or unfortunately, I *did.

She is not a prize but that does not mean you should not prize her
Keep her heart on the mantle but light a fire beneath it to keep her warm and kind
Don’t keep her hidden like a secret she has already been bottled up her whole life
Show her off like a lottery ticket it was nothing more than luck that brought her into your life
This was not your own doing and you will do well to remember that
Give her a place to hide when the sun is too bright and the wind is too loud
But don’t treat her like a caged animal she does not belong to you
She is a canvas but you are not the artist and you do not touch her without her written consent
The right to decorate her body with your fingerprints or your kisses does not belong to you
Keep your hand outstretched to her at all times
She knows herself better than you do and she will take it when she needs it
When she cries don’t stop her and when she smiles smile with her
These are honest forms of communication so listen when she talks to you
Never yell at her she doesn’t deserve that
Don’t treat her like a child anymore her parents did enough of that
If she falls asleep first she feels safe whatever you do hold on to that
She is already scared of the ways she can hurt herself she doesn’t need to be afraid of the ways you can hurt her
And whatever you do don’t give her a reason to leave
She might think you want her to
*~W.C.

Artist
The only description of her
The way her eyelashes glitter
In the shining sunlight
The way her pale face
Is angled to imperfection
In a captivating way
Where you have to feel every curve
Every indent on her cheeks

The way her wrists are stained
With the color of her hair
A raw red
Exploding into the world
Exposing her
From all the rest

It's just a shame
That art is only admired
After it's lifespan is gone

my fingers have become bored with
the quicksand of routine
they prefer to dance erotically over my typewriter
frolicking like naked ballerinas
over an ancient stage
spilling their secret thoughts
onto blank page,
after their day job
threaded together
over my lap,
or bending over to
reveal the contents
of my burlap sack

they have taken instead
to jumping over cracks
in the nothing of night
stifling the sound of silence
with assortments of clicks and clacks
punching in the perfect pitch of keys
to leave Beethoven blind
from this symphony of notes combined

and just like that at last
they have unfolded some rhyme
unachievable with ink and pencil,
without the stencil of time
dictating to work inside the lines