It's five am in Amsterdam
Far away from where I am
I close my eyes
Let out a sigh
And pretend I'm there again

What was it that brought you here?
What was it that made you stay?
Did you come to find yourself?
Don't let me get in your way.
You're not like most people here
That's how I could tell.
Your kindness sets you apart,
You wear that smile well.
The adjustment must be difficult
From what you're accustomed, to here,
Your courage spoke volumes to me
The echo still resounding in my ear.
Mere moments encompassed our chance meeting
A minute forty-five, at most.
You thanked me sincerely as I left
Our eyes locked.
Yours saying more than your words allowed
And I knew
It was I who should be thanking you.

Poets, we fall harder than others
We take blows that football players
Could never understand
Because we take internal damages,
We fight off emotional savages,
But we are different.

Different than what society created
Because we are the result
Of what we as poets choose to create
So would you cease and halt
At the thought of a dagger into your heart
Or would you turn it into a work of art?

Pupils dilate,
control capsized.
bring you
close enough
to fill more
than your eyes.

**** the literary pretence!
fulfil my lust.
Give me your
sweet recompense.

Each touch
and caress,
types pure feeling.
Sensations that
give words no meaning.

We write this act
upon the world.
With sounds of
animal grammar.

Time can wait,
well past sunrise.
Our stanzas
on our bodies;
as we sleep in
each others eyes.

I went to write a poem but
in reality
the troubled, pure
white-hot thoughts
aren't pouring out of me

Each exhale is imagination
each inhale is a knife,
somewhere in my chest's frustration
it cut the former's life

So I lay here
with goosebumps
and creativity stirring,
trying not to fall asleep
with my mind relentlessly whirring

The poem that I meant to leave
has not been left here,
but instead swims inside of me
through innovation and fear.