I'll bring the gasoline
You bring the flame
I'm a Pyromanic, baby
So set my heart ablaze.

You are a child of the universe.
And they say the universe works
In mysterious ways.
And about you,
My darling,
there is such a marvellous
Magical mysterious way.

Believe me, you're not the only one
who's broken, because If you look close
enough at all those around  you, you'll
only see remnants of scars and wounds from
past experiences that make up quarters and halves
where there had once been wholes.

Some days when I feel like a bruise of blues and violets
I look at old memories.
I was the color of yellow,freedom and happiness.
Rosy pinks when I was too shy to talk.
But now, I'm a deep red, passionate
Evolving into something beautiful.

You dress in all black
But have the most colorful mind.

So Plant your own gardens and decorate your own soul, instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers.

Some people are born with tornadoes in their lives,
but constellations in their eyes. Other people are born with stars at their feet, but their souls are lost at sea.

She slept with flowers in her hair,
enclosing starlight in weary eyes;
Dreaming of yesteryear
and all she once left behind.

Girls like her
were born in a storm.
They have lightning in their souls,
Thunder in their hearts,
and chaos in their bones.

She wears all black
just like her soul
yet her heart is made of gold.

How beautiful you bloom
when you nurture your roots

For life is continuous as long as they wait to be read
these inked paths opening into the future, page after page,
every book Its own receding horizon. And I hold them, one in each hand,
a curious ballast weighting me here to the earth.

If you close this book,
one page will touch the page across,
a word will touch another word.
Just think that kiss across the page,
how clenched It is and all we say is,
and deep,
What you say, and I say, x-ray remarks jumbled at once.
We don't mean things just by one,
but give and take.
Your eyes, my lips, your ears, my heart.
This book takes them, to press to, to keep.
Now start.

You are a July campfire
And you, baby hands stretched out in warmth,
calloused fingers plucking metal strings
moments of laughter I'd echo for hours

I am the forest, and I sit in awe of you
Frayed blankets over the leaves,
calf's and feet intertwined
other initials carved into my skin.

There is something beautiful and revitalizing about October. When the leaves fall the world is surrendering. Letting go of the pieces and parts that can no longer serve in a positive way. Trees hold strong to their core and survive the storms; but every good tree knows that as time goes by, the leaves will come back and we all get to start again.

She's a supernova
that trails stardust in her wake,
a constellation of contradictions
plucked from outer space.

And all you can think
to call her is
"pretty".

Raise your words, not voice.
It is rain that grows flowers,
Not thunder.

She became a secret, never opening up
to anyone, and she wore the years like a diary,
no one ever wanted to read.

Why are you sad?
Because you speak to me in words
and I look at you with feelings.

And like the moon,
She had a side of her so dark,
That even the stars couldn't shine on it
She had a side of her so cold,
That even the sun couldn't burn on it.

If I showed you my teardrops,
Would you collect them like rain
Store them in jars,
That are labelled with "Pain"
Would you follow their tracks,
From my eyes down my cheeks,
As they write all the stories,
I'm too scared to speak,
Would you stop them with kisses,
Bring their flow to a halt,
As you teach me that pain
Isn't always my fault,
Would you hold my face gently,
As you dry both my eyes,
And whisper the words,
"You're too precious to cry"
If I showed you my teardrops,
Would you show me your own,
And learn though we're lonely,
We're never alone.

Some people are like
beautiful dreamcatchers,
absorbing the most terrible things
for those they love
and leaving them
only the softest, gentlest
thoughts behind.

You* are not small
You are not unworthy.
You are not insignificant.

The universe wove you from a constellation
just so atom, every fibre in you comes
from a different star.

Together, you are bound by stardust altogether
spectacularly created from the energy of the universe
itself.
And that, my darling,
is the poetry of physics,
the poetry of you.

Poetry doesn't have to ryhme, it just has to touch someone where your hands couldn't.

When they ask you why you love the rain, the ocean, the river, tell them it is because unlike the people who should  have  loved  you better, the water was never  afraid to touch  you; even when you were at your most damaged and broken.

The people
who consider you weak
have not yet noticed
the wolf  hiding
behind  your eyes,
nor the flames
inside your soul.

Let them think
you are weak
and do what
wolves and fire
do best.

Surprise them
when they least expect it.

You have been told
that you love  too  much,
too  many  times
and it should have taught you
that the way people  receive  love
is their problem  not  yours.
It is not that you need to love in moderation.
It is that they  need to learn
how to receive  love  more  graciously.