My soul itches for poetry,
Fingers long for the tap of keyboard or scratch of a pen.
My mouth curves around syllables,
Missing the way they slam against a microphone
As I make myself heard amongst a crowd of those
Who know what it means to be beholden to this master,
To write lines of a poem the way some breathe the air,
To be so made up of adjectives and metaphors
That I no longer know where I begin and the poetry ends.
I am simply molecules and letters masquerading as a human,
Trying to become whole again on paper.

Waiting for you is like
Being the passenger on a bus next to the window seat.
No matter how crowed it gets.
No matter the amount of stops the driver makes.
Being next to the window is the best seat.
Viewing the world inside out.
The nooks & crannies, a part of you that is rarely seen.
Being the passenger
Lost in thought.
Waiting for you gives a certain sensation.
The sensation that there is something to be had,
building great anticipation.
Giving a chance to sit back & reflect.
Thinking the thought of maybe if not this stop.
Maybe it's the next when the driver finally hits the air brakes.
Being the passenger next to the window.
Viewing the world inside out.
The nooks & crannies, a part of you that is rarely
seen.
But eventually every bus has to make it's last stop.
No matter how long the ride

i wasn't born to create some poems
for you
but why am i doing this
is it because i'm into you?

really into you