Separation is deadly,
for one who was just well
is now sick
and requires the gentile touch of his mate.

The worship of a tiny screen,
just trying to catch a glimpse of the soul
that fuels the internal fire
inside my fragile heart.

Hanging onto every single word,
as if it was an offering from God himself
that promised to give everlasting life
to you and your family.

At night,
dreaming of being held tightly
by the only person who can bring you happiness
in this dark cold world.

By day,
longing for the feeling of her soft lips
pressed up against yours
giving you a feeling of revival.

On we worship the screen,
the window to your one true love
that is simply an illusion
comprised of pixels and light.

How you would do anything,
anything at all to hold her
and warm her at night
as she falls asleep in your arms.

You would walk a million miles,
anything just to see her smile
and light up your day
even one last time.

I know I'm not enough.
I promise, I know. So please,
I'm begging you,
stop reminding me.
I promise, I never forget.
But sometimes I get tired of
being sad, being upset.
I start to hold myself higher,
I let myself get past that roadblock.
But then you drop it suddenly atop me,
and I'm left further down the track than
I ever was before.
I know I'm not enough.
How many times will you remind me?

I can't believe I found someone
who loves me as I am,
who fills my life with her sweet embrace
and is my biggest fan.
My thoughts go out to you my dear
every second of the day,
For I learned you are the perfect one
and now life will be ok.
I'm so grateful for your time and love
I will cherish every chance,
And I hope you know how much I care
about our tender sweet romance.
Jules I wrote this for you love
because you thought Wednesday was rough,
but I just wanted to tell you now
that forever isn't long enough<3

no one startles a poet
when writing
because everyone knows
a pen is a
dangerous weapon
and when used correctly
can strike so deep
that even the poet
cannot undo its ink
as is it was tattoo'd
onto the fabric of existence
a sign of rebellion and pain
a battle wound for all to see
and to secretly judge
because we all know
when no ones around
is when the true colors
of a poem
come out.

You made a poet fall in love with you
And expected her not to write sonnets about your eyes
Haikus about the way you kissed her in the moonlight
Expected the fire in her heart not to inspire couplets
You made a poet fall in love with you, and when you left
Expected her not to write pages about the ache in her chest
Write a soliloquy dedicated to her tears
Expected her not to feel every gut wrenching moment of the pen hitting paper like your words hit her in the most vulnerable places of her mind.
You made a poet fall in love with you, and you expected her to be silent.
That is no fault of hers.

Perverted shackles distort the essence of humanity,
mangling what we are meant to feel as people.
We continue life blindly in false ecstasy,
not knowing what there really is to feel.

I see so many of my own fall into this trap of numbness,
where exists only selfish pleasure and inflated egos.
Where the dominant entity is a degrading creature,
one who only knows how to feel for himself.

To my companions, I pose this;
What about the warm embrace of another?
What about the passionate exhale that leaks from the soul,
or the connection of two beings as one?

What has happened to the gift of love and affection?
Where has the art of feeling disappeared to?
Most judge those who decide to be intimate,
those who choose long walks over lifeless engagements, and those who decide to love instead of ****.