One year since I met him.
Six months since I saw him.
Three since I've spoken to him.
And finally I'm done.
Like polar bears lumbering
Over sand dunes I'm dried up.
I can't believe that he was a man
For whom I thought I could have
Written epics for.

I need new inspiration.
When your muse is fickle
As leaves on deciduous trees
One must find a new source
For the Mississippi.

I will take up crime, start small.
Jaywalking!
And write a limerick about the
Thrill of it.

I'll dance with more than one
Man in a night let them touch
But not keep. They cannot
Breach this beach it's mine.
I don't invite strangers into my
Bed, I take none of them home,
but somehow they're all a poem.
I don't want to be a writer
With pages of ex-lovers in
Her notebooks scrawled
Out in ink, like blood,
Like tears from a flood.
Cause I will pour out all
My words, my language is
Love, on the pages balled
Up in waste baskets hidden.
My heart beats to a rhythm
Too irregular a meter
For most to keep up.
I get it.

A muse is old news.
I can write it better
Than some hipster sweater
Wearing, never texting first,
Fall in and out of love headfirst
Kinda man.

But oh man, I'd love a man
With whom I would write
Perpetual sonnets.
Fill volumes with devotion
Not about one night but all
The nights that we fall asleep
Together knowing that tomorrow
Is another day I get to write about him.
And though nothing will be new
There will be something beautiful
About when the whiskey on his breath
Meets the coffee on mine.
We all have our vices,
The idea of love is mine.
Each kiss would taste like rhyme
A thief he'd steal my heart
A victimless crime.

Till then I will take new roads
Through yellow wood and
Envy the song of the nightingale,
Because I too know why the
Caged bird sings.
It rests in my chest, flutters,
And gets excited by others
Touch and false promises.
I promise this: I will wait love
But idle shall my pen never be.

You are the painting feather
and I am the canvas you draw on

With your artistic hand,
you paint on me the final touch

With a stroke, you paint a smile on
sad faces

With a swing, you paint a gentle breeze
Instead of a gusty wind

Please draw on me with ease
N' erase from me what you don't please

I love you even if you
throw the colors in the seas

I will listen to your voice
Thats a moment I will cease

With you there was no falling in love
There was flying
Realising
I'd found everything i'd ever wanted
And more
A love so pure
Above mountains and into
The clouds I soar.

We are critical.

We find flaws in
everything we see
because nobody
wants to write
about perfection,
even though sometimes
we wish we could just stay
staring into that
unblemished surface.

2. We are never satisfied.

We live our lives upon
mountains of
scrunched up
bits of refill and
ideas we gave up
trying to
express.

3. We never forget.

We write words about
eye contact made
three months ago
that we replay over
and over in our minds
even though it
stopped
being relevant.

4. We are fickle.**

Our emotions flash
from one
to the other
like strobe lighting that
disorientates us
until we feel as if
the world
will never be still.

5. We are exposed.

We don't know how
to keep our feelings
to ourselves so
we'll write them
down for
you to find
'accidentally'.

6. We are vulnerable.

We wear our
hearts on our sleeves
and won't lift a
muscle to fight back
if somebody tries
to break it
because we thrive
from the pain.

7. We will never stop.

We will never stop
feeling and
we will never stop
hurting,
we will never stop
breaking and
bleeding and
loving
even though the cycle
is endless
and we know what's
coming next.


We are addicted
to agony,
but we agonise
for the art.

I have so many words to say but hold back.
For the fear of embarrassment is too strong.
I just wish you knew how i felt, i'm tired of always being the one to start the conversation.
I just wish talking to you  was as easy as it was in my dreams....
Another night, another dream wasted on you.