between you and me,
i'm still rooting for us.

maybe not in this lifetime,
but in the end.

Are you fleeing from Love because of a single humiliation?
What do you know of Love except the name?
Love has a hundred forms of pride and disdain,
and is gained by a hundred means of persuasion.
Since Love is loyal, it purchases one who is loyal:
it has no interest in a disloyal companion.
The human being resembles a tree; its root is a covenant with God:
that root must be cherished with all one's might.
A weak covenant is a rotten root, without grace or fruit.
Though the boughs and leaves of the date palm are green,
greenness brings no benefit if the root is corrupt.
If a branch is without green leaves, yet has a good root,
a hundred leaves will put forth their hands in the end.

Love is the cure,
for your pain will keep giving birth to more pain
until your eyes constantly exhale love
as effortlessly as your body yields its scent.”

The moon has become a dancer
at this festival of love.
This dance of light,

This sacred blessing,
This divine love,
beckons us
to a world beyond
only lovers can see
with their eyes of fiery passion.

They are the chosen ones
who have surrendered.
Once they were particles of light
now they are the radiant sun.

They have left behind
the world of deceitful games.
They are the privileged lovers
who create a new world
with their eyes of fiery passion.

sunny daffodil blooms
are still months away,
maybe that's a good thing
if you know what they say.

you can't swallow poison
if there's nothing to eat,
you can't be a victim
if you retreat.

you can't see the cracks
in the mirror that spread
if you stay locked up
within your own head.

I'll stay and mend the world for you
And take care of the pain if you want me to

I'll fill the cracks with your favourite words
And keep you in shape when the world is not

I'll provide you with laughter when you're running low on joy
And advice on the heavy days

When I was a child,
I was taught poetry wasn't mild,
It was deep as the sea,
And it seemed truly unachievable for me.
I was taught poetry had to rhyme,
Every single line, every single time.
So poetry seemed out of my reach,
Like chasing a seagull down a beach,
Jumping ever so slightly away,
Or soaring into the sunny day.

So I never thrived for what I thought would,
No, Could
Never be.

I guess now I'm fixing the mistakes of past me.

Its not supposed to be this hard
right?
I'm not supposed to wonder day to day if i'll be ok
right?
I look back at pictures of the people I had to leave behind
they still remember me like I remember them
right?
Im not the only one who feels like they have to move on
right?
But you see I cant help thinking they dont remember me
I know i'm not ok
I am trying...

is this where
pain comes from

the unsettled mind
asking unanswerable

questions

millions of nasty neurons
twisting and turning

around each other
creating knots

blocking the flow
so all I can feel

is the constant need
to stretch myself