I see people writing about love and being together,
lazy Sunday's and kisses in the rain, late dinners
and holding hands or
a stroll in the park on a warm spring day.

You're enslaved to overly romanticized *******
and frankly when I think of doing any of these things
I want to ***** all over your pretty sun dresses.
because feelings are hard and happiness is a farce.

You waste days, weeks, and months worrying about finding
someone to spend forever with and for what?
To be disappointed with your unrealistic expectations
in that which love should be?

Spare me the *******, I'm over this.
When your happiness depends on someone else
you are not living at all.

This is my decoration.
No seriously.

A picture in paper,
Ink, graphite, rubber--
This is me

An introvert
With compelling words
Becomes an open book

The ruler-rigid lines
Do not hinder or confine
But support

That mere scratches upon a page
Can create a new galaxy of  understanding
Is a neverending wonder

Over the vast horizon
of a blank page,
One can watch a universe unfold

With a blank page,
One receives the ultimate gift
Of a liberated mind

These are my words
This is my passion
This is me

Taking flight

The sky puts on the darkening blue coat
held for it by a row of ancient trees;
you watch: and the lands grow distant in your sight,
one journeying to heaven, one that falls;

and leave you, not at home in either one,
not quite so still and dark as the darkened houses,
not calling to eternity with the passion of what becomes
a star each night, and rises;

and leave you (inexpressibly to unravel)
your life, with its immensity and fear,
so that, now bounded, now immeasurable,
it is alternately stone in you and star.