Novelists, poets, tend to be hopeless romantics only capable of writing romance once we find our hope.

Gosh, I know, my dear friends, some time has passed since my last love note.

Reduce your worry, for love is soon to burst from my pen more inspiring than ever before.

In my efforts to be exuberant yet patient, I will briefly describe this woman I adore.

Her smile makes you forget you’ve cried, her strength strikes in you, weakness, life with her makes you question if you’ve ever lived.

The view is difficult to describe, I am watching a thief steal something I am yearning to give.

She’s a reminder that God in a relationship makes heaven the ceiling.

For those who have missed the love in my scripts, she is restoring the feeling.

There is a belief we can’t buy peace of mind but hundreds of books in, you feel as if you’ve bought some.

Save more wheat than you’re milling, you will be ready if a drought comes.

Next sacrifice things furnished to be a furnace, you shall keep the house warm.

Don’t assess the bee by the honey, observe the health of thy swarm.

As Porfiry sipped from the brightly blue drink she’d bought him, words did not rush from his lips in their usual manner.

“You’re so… , I mean ha , your eyes, they’re umm, haha pardon me” he rushed for his straw once more, beginning to believe he’d lost the ability to flatter.

Across from him, behind eyes that glowed of malachite, a smile radiating joy, and bangs hinting feigned innocence, was a girl not of his type.

Yet, here he sat, a journalist lost for words. No longer simply unable to speak but beginning to feel as if he could no longer read or write.

Floral scents from her aroma seemed to invade his space, shimmer down his spine, and follow him back to his flat.

Staring at the ceiling in the black of night, he challenged his desires, why did an outlier fill him with butterflies such as that.

The next two dawns roaming through town, he felt chills as the sight of bangs harassed him. All the traffic lights were emerald and the world looked new.

Twenty four hours later, Porfiry learned he had the flu.

I’ve begun to slip into madness.

Reminders of society bring about thoughts and stomach sensations that kind of feel like sadness.

They’re more reminders I could become sad but It’s a distant yet familiar hole

It’s like glancing through prison bars separately me from my soul.

However here I must remain as I chase my dreams in my self manufactured exile

The obtainment of true freedom, ironically requires one to be locked away for awhile.

I’m starting to believe summiting Everest is all about grip.

That’s the thing about going to the edge of reality, you just might slip.

The suspense of impending insanity perturbs me,  so I dive forward full force.

Freedom I preach, the path however, I do not endorse.