Poems aren't written,
they're found,
Somewhere in your head the words are waiting,
They're sprawled across the floor,
You just need to pick them up,
Make a path with them,
Let your path guide observers,
And if you can't write,
Walk down somebody's else's path first,

Time doesn't heal.
And the wound knows it.
Layers gather on the ****
but the damage remains,
hiding itself deep inside
the secret scar

He was imperfect
He was young
She loved him
She was crazy
She wasn’t so pretty
He loved her

He had doubts
He had challenges
She loved him
She was naïve
She was carefree
He loved her

He was smart
He was cute
She loved him
She got brains
She had talent
He loved her

He lied
He cheated
She loved him
He became rude
He was difficult
She loved him

He was scared
He was reckless
She cared
He was arrogant
He was insensitive
She was hurt

He ignored her
He hurt her more
She became different
He cheated more
He cheated carelessly
She ignored him

He became scarce
He cut off ties
She survived
He was addicted
He was pitiful
She had empathy

He fell
She brought him up
He got sick
She nursed him to health
She slipped
He didn’t catch her
He got into trouble
She turned her back on him

He wanted her back
She didn’t
It was too late
She felt nothing for him

She was,
A diamond he got
She was,
A diamond he lost

Your heart is my  temple of love
I worship it alone.
I wish I were a temple
And your heart is my idol.

Sad eyes of scribbles underneath your furrowed brow
Weather beaten, masticated, bashed
The lines of your face burrow and settle in to dwell
They check their mailboxes, set up lemonade stands
And drudge up demons beneath pores
Once you were alone in your purity
The occasional blemish or two
Nothing to make into cities
Nothing like decrepitude