Come on, come here people,
I have low prices on my new products
Here, take this one :
It's the latest trend in my world !
See how red it is,
Look how it shines !
It used to breathe and beat,
And then it got tired.
But it still works
As you can see !

Ah, you mister !
I see you look interested !
What is it called, you ask ?
Well, this is my heart.
I know it looks like it's dying,
But it's just a bit broken
This is THE deal of your life, I swear !
Yes madam, you can bargain,
The price is not actually set.

Hey you little girl !
Be careful when you touch it !
This is a very fragile thing
You wouldn't want to break it
Even more than it already is ;
Whithin the limits of possibility.
Ah, come closer, come closer !
Yes it is for sale indeed,
I know it is a bit broken
But give it just a little attention
And it will look just as new as before !

There's a story that comes with it,
My diary is free if you buy my heart !
What ? Oh yes, the price can go lower,
Not many people think my heart is valueable.

No ? No takers ?
Ah don't worry, I understand !

I have a crush on your words.
How easily they form into a verse.
Falling eloquently on my head,
Making a soft feather bed,
inside the deep chambers of my mind.
Your words jump in there and look divine!

Sometimes dressed in a short pink dress,
Sometimes wrapped in a warm duvet.
Sometimes in a **** sarong,
Making me moan all night long.

Sometimes your words have the power of steel,
dressed in an armour and a shield revealed.
Sometimes on a yellow sun dress,
your words make my heart feel impressed.

Do you know what your your words do?
If there are too many I go in a minute of shock or two.
So use them carefully and lovingly,
Because I have a crush on your words, I do!

trust is like a mirror’s lust
to convey only truth;
to portray even clearer views
of what remains astute.
and in its path;
beholder’s eyes
are searching for the roots;
reminded of the innocence
protected by their youth

but left with only what is there
the self observed is unaware
and though reflections seem to move;
at truth you’re made to stare.

i have found myself while dancing,
grinding against walls scribbled with
martinis and broken ideas.
i have seen myself through others,
the girl who wobbles through neon colors,
the girl who shakes until sweat paints a fresh new coat.
i have heard my gospel,
through the thunderous speakers,
the screams of people who want a warm bed.
i have lost myself while dancing,
falling to absent galaxies,
trying to find a light to guide me home.
relying on the touch of unknown men,
to **** this star wallowing deep inside of me.
i do not know who i am
when i am dancing.
i want to think i am the milky way,
or a black hole,
gasping everything entirely.

You're a beautiful mystery clad in gorgeous enigma.
You're poetry that looks good in a skirt.

There's an orchestra on your tongue, playing the sound of your voice like a melody I can't forget,
matching the tempo of the drums in my heart
and the broken strings of my violin compliments.

You are a notebook, a yearbook, a sketchbook, a burn book,
every facet of you written in swirling cursive,
rhymes and famous signatures snaking between cinnamon hair and cleverness.

You are a pen running out of ink,
bleeding dry in Barnes and  Noble Moleskin journals,
but that's okay because I have more ink,
and you can borrow whatever you want from me--
store it in the heart you stole if you're bored enough to hunt my words for the pieces.
You have the key already.

You're the first dream of the boy too scared of nightmares to sleep again.

You are the taste of honey and cigarettes on the lips of the first girl that boy ever kissed,
because she was a rebel and he needed a hero
who wore boots instead of Mary-Janes
and band t-shirts instead of blouses.

You are the rose he drew when he was bored,
an outline with potential,
mysterious, entrancing, incomplete,
not yet ablaze with the red of desire
because he was never good at finishing things.
You are a dictionary. Your picture isn't just under "beautiful."
It's under "dangerous" and "witty" and "myth"
because Medusa bowed at your feet next to James Bond and Edgar Allan Poe,
and you're too good to be true anyways.

You are a poem, a telltale heart beating inside a lesson in vengeance,
temporary only because nothing gold can stay.
You've walked past where the sidewalk ends (certainly the road less traveled by)
and come back far more darling than any buds of May.

(You are the paperback novel he read under the covers,
the flashlight only bright enough to show paragraphs,
and every new page unique in shape and form
while the text remains the same.

You are the raw words read aloud by the daring poet,
standing beneath midnight moon,
the power of the throne,
the breath of a whispered promise falling upon the ear,
the warmth of kisses on the cheek,
the passion of all hope there ever was in trust and truth.

You are the fire in lightning,
the sparkle in the snow and the glitter in the rain,
the fierceness of the wind and the gentle, soothing peace,
the blazing chill of winter and the roar of summer's heat.)

But you're still a mystery.
A beautiful,
beautiful
mystery.