The feels of a poet are never easily explained,
A string of words,
Scratches of a pencil,
We pour our heart into the note book beneath our pillows.
Expressing our pain, sorrow and joy all in one place,
Our safe haven.
But if you ask how we are the answer never changes.
We are fine.

My idea of a perfect Heaven,
Consists of all of the things I would go to hell for.
So where do I go?

A war rages in my heart,
The only casualties are my feelings,
My tears threaten to spill when we speak,
How do I tell you that I love another,
You are my brother,
If not by blood then by bond,
I can't live without you,
But I can't live with you,
If I tell you how far will you go?
Could I still reach you?
Can we go back to friendship?

The storm will come.
Or maybe it has already.
Maybe it's raining on you now.

But know this,
Sometimes the storm comes to clear a path.