Is it appropriate,
To tell you I love you.
To tell you,
Just how fast you make my heart race.
To explain,
The feeling of butterflies,
And the tightness in my chest.
May I say,
How perfect it feels
To be wrapped up in your arms.
Or should I keep this,
My little secret.

Immobilized I gaze at the ceiling
Remembering the moments that led to this evening
I choke on the words I dare not say
Forced to deal with the pain that plagues me each day

Piercing each nerve
Giving way to exasperation
Resentment hangs heavy
and I feel suffocated  
Another day alone plotting my reparation
These fantasies could end my senses and reason

I wish I could inflict the same anguish upon him
Wounding his pride leaving him with nothing
If only he could feel helplessness and shame
To a degree in which he would never be the same
Only then could my hate begin to wane

Poet, be not afraid.
There are far worse things than
Bad poetry.

Keep writing; like a child keeps
Drawing with the purest of
Disregards to likeness.

The more stones you turn, the more
Gems you produce.

The more ink you rain,
The more gracious your written
Children grow.

All flexing builds muscle.

Rough bricks form castles.

Even Dalì carved canvases to shreds
And started anew
Not caring too much.
Not caring

Too much
To keep painting.

Thank you for breaking me
And making me
A better me

Thank you for hurting me
And making me
A stronger me

Thank you for shooting me
And making me
Bulletproof

Thank you for burning me
And making me
Fireproof

She will lose herself in a book
and find herself in poetry

She thinks that religion is a sacrilege
and that long showers are sacred

She makes love when she's tired
and never tires of making love

She is irreverent in her humor
and pious in her gravity

She is diligent in completing her work
and ambitious of her quest for leisure

She is the personification of romanticism
and the embodiment of compassion

She exists harmoniously in my mind