Eyes

within eyes

within eyes

within eyes

within eyes

within eyes

within eyes

that do not see.

My notebook
Full of words
Letters
Commas and periods

My notebook
Full of smudges
Eraser bits
Crinkles and creases

My Notebook
Full of messages
Hidden Meanings
Energy and life

My notebook
Is the place,
The book
In which
I write

Drunken texts and phone calls at 3am
Forbidden fantasies of you and me
Stumbling through the city to find where you might be
It's all a trick isn't it,
An impossible dream.
Your apartment door shakes,
Oh it aches for me.
Taxi cabs being forced to drive.
You send me away,
No. Not tonight..
Lipstick kisses and tired hearts.
I always take it that little bit too far.

The poems doesn't speak to you.
It sings, it whispers, it screams.

The poem isn't going anywhere.
It dances; glides or crawls.

The poem isn't written.
It is cried, bled or shivered onto

Paper. The poem doesn't care.
It's just there. Where it belongs.

It doesn't mind or like.
It loves, adores or despises from its

Soul. The poems isn't created.
It blesses the poet with its birth.