“Don't you miss being in love?”, she asks.
I simmer, gathering myself  and my thoughts.

No, I don't, because I have not been in love;
Not in the manner I imagine it.
I have loved - beautifully, might I add -
But never have I been in love.

How can I have?
At my best, all I knew was to compel, persuasively,
someone into loving me -
the best possible way I knew how.
I revealed just enough of myself,
the beautiful of myself,
the parts of me that drew butterflies.

Hidden were the broken parts of me,
those which keep me awake, sleepless -
'til the moon kisses me goodnight,
in the last hours before dawn.

I am not, by any means, denying ever loving.
I have loved, blindly and beautifully.
All I have ever been good at was loving -
loving someone into loving me,
the best way possible.

But, all of their love was inadequate.
A love which always fell short of loving me,
the best way possible.

Love; inadequate:
Unable to express loving me,
unable to express themselves of loving me.

In turn,
I was slapped with sloppy efforts of loving me -
Vague inadequacies of love.
It was never enough, not remotely close,
to what I had imaged loving me would be.
It was short of ever arousing me internally,
short of wits to spiral me into being in love.

And so, how can I miss being in love,
when it has always been a feeling that eluded me?
How can I miss being in love, when in love -
I concealed the broken parts of me?
How can I have been in love when I was lonely, in love?

How can I have been in love,
when all I knew of being in love was to love myself -
by loving whomever loved the aesthetic parts of me?

Loving me has always been an infatuation -
an infatuation of the broken pieces of me,
coming together to create an illusion of a love -
an unsatisfactory love for loving me.

How can I have ever been in love when no one has known,
expressed, conjured the best possible way of loving me.
All of me.

Once more, up at the last hours before dawn -
awaiting the moon to kiss me goodnight, I tell her.

If you enjoy having every fibre of your consciousness picked apart by literary ***** at 2 am on a Wednesday,
Fall in love with a writer.

If you enjoy fighting over incorrect grammar usage,
Fall in love with a writer.

If you want to constantly have your eyes rolled at every time you question a metaphor,
Fall in love with a writer.

If you want to be swept off your feet and then promptly put back down in the same piece of writing,
Fall in love with a writer.

If you want to feel worried when the phone isn't answered,
Fall in love with a writer.

Mood swings and sleepless nights?
Fall in love with a writer.

If tangible expression conveys unequivocal compassion,
Most of the time, don't fall in love with a writer.

If you want misinterpret pieces of writing because of the uncertainty of the writers sanity,
Fall in love with one.

If you find that yesterday you were dating a completely different person, if you find that your skin is often referred to as porcelain cigarette ash, if your eyes are viewed like the the first time you saw two flies *******, if the lump in your throat lives on ballpoints, you've fell in love with a writer.

There's no turning
back at this point,
falling out of love
with a writer is like
saying goodbye to a
phone with no dial tone.

the worst thing I’ve ever done
was letting the world
know that I write,
it’s not the 2am phone calls
asking if I’m okay,
it’s not the regret of
of relationships or
the running away,
it’s the look in my mothers
eyes when I write about dying,
it’s the regard to kin
when holding certain
emotions in,
forging positivity
and relaying
the antiquities
of struggle,
the minuscule
moments of will
drill into minds
painting all kinds
of doubtful abstracts,
creating spousal transacts
of how to fix their son,
it’s not the questions
about what I mean when I
say my skin spits goose flesh
or my eyes wrap yesterday
in spruce mesh that
eventually frays,
it’s the days where
I get kindred
phone calls
wondering if I’ll pick up
because of writing
the night before
stating that
I’m skating
on thin ice,
I dont want them to worry
I’ll be fine,
but for now it’s the pen
that has to unwind
the noose from
confining words
I refuse to say.

I strike the canvas with bitter paint
Sink the graphite blade through the innocent White
My charcoal hides the stains
This oil will covers the cuts

Is my painting good enough for you?
Tell me now, while the flames lick my soul
Is my gift still what shames you?
Is that what liberates me still a weakness in your eyes?

I may be able to create untold horrors on empty sheets,
I may be able to draw a journey to the soul,
I may be able to give way to a masterpiece,
But to you, all these colors are what make me less than a man

So I'll splatter the ink
Slice the void
Paint my hell
Because this is Art,
This is Life
Because this is Liberation

Despair is a tight suit to wear
Even inhaling is restricted
Lungs imploding from the weight
Not of happiness or hate

Void of feeling, I'm reeling, then kneeling
Family and friends offer comfort
I just brush them aside
How can I let anyone inside?

Dare I end this night with slumber
Before this fear can delight
I must will the sun to rise
For there isn't much hope at the end of a rope ...

Alas! YOU have arrived
To soak up my words
May you drink them in
Delight in them
For they were penned for YOU
I know not your name
Nor will I see your face
But, you were on my mind when I wrote them

I knew you would come one day

And be touched by these few words
Not yesterday, not tomorrow, instead today
How was I to know the time
The timing I leave to you

I am just glad you came

Its never too late to proceed
For the words in my poems
Are meant for just the right moment
Filling a need
Easing some pain
Perhaps they turn your frown upside down

That is why ...

I continue to write

And ...

YOU continue to read

Broken things require glue
Turn around that's you

Don't stand by and watch me break
This world needs NOT another fake

Take a moment to embrace me
Your touch will set me free

Pure hands infuse humanity
Deliver it just for my sanity

There is no mistaken identity
Inside you is my serenity

One touch ... a basic need I concede
My ache is now full speed

Do not make me beg
Press in and heal my plague

Today I ooze of selfishness
You are familiar with my reticence

Guilt draws near and whispers
Push past its tiny embers

My need today transcends
Straight from you, no bends

I lay curled up in a ball
Listen, do you hear my call

From you, I plead one task
One touch ... *it's all I ask

The stars have descended on the ground tonight
They say they want to meet the source of their inspiration
Darling...they are talking about you