I hold in my hand, a flower.
Delicate, soft, fragile.
  And from this flower, I pluck.
   It's petals. I pluck the petals.
    I take the petals to show my love.
     I take its clothing to reveal my heart.
      Each garment exposing another inch of cool, soft skin to show
       hard, muscled veins.

What is the real mask?
  The clothing, or the skin?
   What am I trying to hide?
    Isn't my love enough that you shouldn't wonder?
     No.

So, I pluck.
I pluck away the petals to reveal what is inside.
  The ugly.
   The bad.
    Because that is love.

So go ahead.
Take my clothing
  And pluck these petals.

I'm silent
I am not silent because I am gagged
I am not silent because I am dumb
I am silent for the mere experience of silence
It is a choice
A willing act to not speak when injustice is seen.
A choice when the girl told you her boyfriend was abusive and yet you said, "Have a good night," and carried on with your day like another butterfly to be collected and pinned to your array of malice and gore.
I am silent.
I keep my melody, my song.
Did you know that we all have a song?
Every one of us.
It is what moves the fiber of our being to life and breath.
It steers our will and courses through our veins.
Some sing. Some choose not to.
Some belt out their melodies in tumultuous harmony, while others whisper along.
Their melody, nevertheless, beautiful and counted.
And some... some sing off-key
So, yes.
I am silent.
Because my silence is the only sanity I store, my salvation.
My only hope for life, and to see you someday.
I remain silent, so you can sing.
And you choose to sing for me.

On glorious procrastination
How you keep me from being full
I love it when you take away my time
And now I'm rushing in this paper
And it's time to thank you