sure*, i wanted to be yours,
but, really, more than anything,
i wanted to be mine.

This is not a love poem
this is an I love you do you love me like
I love you poem
do you know me like
you think you do poem
this is a would you be disappointed
if you did poem
an I have been feeling the chilling of the air
and I cant tell if it is just the fault of the season
or if you, too, are cooling
whatever heat you had for me
browning and falling and
crumbling between my fingers
like the leaves of these oak trees
in november poem
a what would I need to do to keep us warm poem
and this is also
an I may be completely mistaken poem
an it was seventy degrees today poem
this is a show me I am completely mistaken poem

when people are in love
they often say
they simply fell
tripped over their own two feet
face forward
and into the arms of their beloved

i did more than simply fall
onto the ground of your love

you, for me
were an ocean
and i dived
headfirst
roughly
harshly
almost painfully
into the waters of “you”

i knew i could not swim
but i did so anyway
i was drowning
entangled in you
surrounded by this being of “you”
engulfed in this feeling of “you”

and i did not know what came over me
but i let myself drown
i did not try to swim back up
because if i went back to land,
releasing myself from your grasp
that would mean losing the feeling of “you”

and after
submerging into the depth
the love
the passion
of “you”

how could i ever leave?

to all those who ask why i write poetry-
you're always asking.
why can't you just accept it?

it just so happens that the looping letters
and delicate metaphors
are my way of speaking the words hidden inside
that my lips are too afraid to form.
stop saying poetry is hard,
that just because of that,
you must be forced.
i've learned that anyone can become a poet,
if they're not afraid to let their true feelings inside
spill out from their fingertips
and flow through the ink on the page.
we may all be poets,
allowing our twisted metaphors
or straight up confessions
to talk for us.

so why write poetry?
to all those who ask-
write poetry
because you no longer will allow the words that build up inside
to become the fear that controls you.

He branded her skin with his words
and claimed her body with his hands.

He tied a knot around her heart
and tugged in times of despair.

He was a chef in the art of lies
and he knew just how much sugar she liked.

He knew her,
the shape of her curves,
the waves in her hair,
the desire in her lips..
the cracks in her mask.

He knew how she valued words,
how they were as valuable to her as music to him.

He knew how she longed for knowledge,
how it brightened her eyes and enlightened her heart.

He knew her,
everything about her,
because she could go on for hours
and never run out of words she wanted to share with him.

He had told her he loved her.

And then he just could never seem to remember to tell her again.

A pretty girl got seven stitches and watched while the
Needle wove through her arm
A pretty boy broke her heart and she forgot to be angry
A pretty father and a pretty mother in a big, beautiful house
Sobbed in the night and clung to each other like soggy paper mache
The girl wore hospital socks and turned over the underwire in her bra
Staring at the green curtain clanking against the metal track above her
Praying for an ambulance man that would never come
And a god that would never save her
She stopped praying
And got the stitches removed seven days later.

"Even in your most
vulnerable moments,
be your own home
be your own moon."