Head held high she stares into the abyss,
Her power and beauty is beyond measure,
For words fail to compile a description worthy of her being,
The fine lines mingle with hidden secrets in blurred perceptions,
Her femininity is vast,
Beyond that received by the naked eye,
Identity vested within the lineage carried by her stride,
She is a woman worthy of her pride.

Confide in me she whispers,
Peeling away each layer that traps his essence,
Share your devious truths that ache to surface,
Confide in me,
Trusting her gestures he dismantles his barriers,
Flooding her refuge with stories untold,
He confides in her solitude.

If I gave you my soul,
would you read each page?
Scribble notes of interest
and know me.
Would you take the time,
to help tape the seams?
Would you mend,
the fragility of my soul?
It tears and rips,
easily, emotionally.

They said,
"The most beautiful art is
looking into someone's eyes
when they talk about the
things they love."
And I said,
"Or looking at someone you love.
Or maybe, just maybe,
by looking at the mirror
is the most beautiful art
anyone should appreciate."

I used to read your poems
but lately you don't write
you're silent and aloof
you know that isn't right.
You can't close a door once opened
you can't abolish all your dreams
you're a poet of the heart
mustn't fall apart at the seams.
Say what you can in words
they speak the message true
spoken from the heart
the poems will see you through.
A hermit's not your style
a recluse, you are not
never give up writing
of things that you've been taught.
I used to read your poems
I'd read them once again
if you would send them out
(this one's from a poet friend)

i do not believe in god
but i do believe in poetry
and for me
maybe poetry is prayer
and the universe
is an unwavering ear
in the shape of a god