I look at the bed, where you once pinned me down
and in memories I begin to drown
Like ones of the happiness, that you used to bring
how can that have not meant a thing?
How can you say you love her now,
when it used to be me, who made you say "wow"?

The very day Creativity slipped a ring
on her finger,
they were wed.
Bound together by a compelling
need and desire
to be together,
to stay together, and
inspire together.
He let her run free,
knowing she would always
come back to his embrace,
for she craved the solace only he provided,
the expressions he alone understood.
They were beautiful,
and the ideas they lovingly crafted together
were beautiful,
if only to them.

She loved him because he was always there
when she needed him,
yet he was his own entity,
independent,
and could not be forced or coerced
into making something out of thin air.
He loved her because she tested his limits
cautiously.
She pushed him farther than he
thought possible,
but her results were mesmerizing.
They loved and created together
in a relationship that is
unique
to every pair of eyes that sees them.

Sometimes he will leave her
briefly,
to love another.
She refuses to be bitter because
she knows she is
guilty
of the same act,
sometimes choosing
Reality or
Selfishness
over her dear creative love.
The time apart makes
their reunion sweeter,
more memorable,
and more forgiving.
Some who know them both
will say there's never been a more
full and fragile marriage than the one
between
Creativity and a Free Spirit.

Two entities, the ***** and the harlot, have a conversation in my mind:

Harlot, you can't go running after every guy that smiles at you
Yes *****, but you can't go frowning at them every time they look at you either
There's nothing wrong with playing hard to get
The way you play makes them think there's nothing worth getting
Listen Harlot, if it wasn't for me, every man you met would have gotten some
But you need me, *****. You let your head and heart get filled with all these silly romantic dreams, and then there's no one around to love you. If it wasn't for me, you'd be a lonely soul
Maybe you haven't noticed, but I am lonely. Every time you let a man in, I have to push him out

Maybe if you cut loose once in a while you wouldn't be so alone
And maybe if you tightened up you wouldn't have such a friendly reputation following you around. I know you think its fun when you're stretched out in their arms, but we both know that they always leave, and I come out and put my arms around you. I'm the one to fix the hurt, mend the wounds, and field the emotions
**...That may be true, but if it wasn't for me, you wouldn't know what love is, wouldn't know what its like to hear someone whisper your name. You say you hate me, but I know its stuffy holdin' those clothes on so tight.  
So you may be ashamed of me,  you may clean up my mess, but the reality is, *****, you need my past. You need my confidence, and you need to learn that I may be quiet, but I can not go away.
I will be your shadow, I'm the darkest part of you, and even when the lights are on, I've done things we can't undo.
So let's make a deal, a pact, to coincide in peace. I'll be on my best behavior if you'll take care of me

They loved each other so deeply,
They never resurfaced

Find a Poet Not a poser, not a "it's just a hobby" poet. Find one who mumbles lines as they scramble for a pen at breakfast; who shakes their head randomly when their thoughts aren't rhyming properly;  who has notebooks stashed around the house that you must never touch.
2. Listen Savor the spoken words, for those are harder to express. Keep in mind that they can't be edited and re-written, and be forgiving when a mistake is made.
3. Read The body speaks as loudly as words on a page do. When their eyes are closed or focused on the ceiling and the fingers are tapping out syllables, recognize the unique process. Respect the need for quiet, because if you look closely, you can read the poem on their face before they write it on the page.
4. Write Write your story together. Grab hold of the pen and hang on as you move across the page of life. Sometimes you will dance across, others you will be dragged. You may have to cross out a word, or a line, or a page, but don't give up. Discouragement is a poet's biggest enemy, inarticulateness their biggest fear. So end each day with a semi-colon, because the story will never end the way you think it will, and there must be room for more. There is always room for more, more words, more laughter, more tears, more love,
When you love a poet.

I stand sadly by my window
Watching as winter once again
Claims all that surrounds me

I once loved this season
Of icy snow, wool socks,
And fires to keep me warm

But now I dread stepping outside
For I know I will never again
See your footprints next to mine

If you say perfect again
I will point out
how perfectly insane
that is;
There is no such thing.