You tell me it's natural for people to grow apart,
but good god is it natural for tears to stop drying?

Loving him feels like being alive again.
Like a flower blooms in spring.
Like a flying butterfly.
Loving him feels like in home.
Warmth and comforting.
Wrapped in a room full of insanity.

Loving him feels like in a room full of art.
Lost in the idea of being loved.
Loving him means understanding.
Find a way to appreciate every little things.
To believe in the power of accepting people's flaws.

Loving him isn't red, neither it's blue.
Loving him is white.
Pure, soft and content.
Loving him is adoring every inch of beautiful things.
And could be a reason to be thankful.

"We're drifting apart,"
said the earth to the moon.

"We've been through so much, hm?"
replied the moon to earth.
"It'll be glum to go,
but sadly I must now."

"Why? Please don't go away,"
begged the earth to the moon.
"I will miss you for sure."

"And I will too," said moon
and earth silently sobbed.

"4.5 billion years,
for what?" The earth whimpered.

"I can't love you anymore."

"If I could say the same."

"..."

I want you to know
The confident girl you see
Is a sculpture of shards,
Shards of glass and broken hearts
Held together by plaster
From the smile plastered on her face

Glass shards from the first time
The first time when nails werent enough
Glass from when the broken frame
Falling fron the dented wall


Shards of her once perfect life
Ran over by the swirving car
The night she saw....
The night she decided she had to stand tall
But even skyscrapers fall

A heart broken by ***** lips
And pounding hips
Lips that forced and lied
Tongues that whispered promises
But just lead to teary eyes
A heart broken from believing
Just to be left behind

This empty sculpture is filling
Recognizing its worth,
Recognizing theres stregnth in parts
She learning how to give you her heart

Her heart is broken, But forgiving
So she keeps on giving
Fi.ds the stregnth to keep living
Shes has given you her heart
Love her, love her smart

Poets are..
Forgetful. But they remember everything. They forget appointments,and what time dinner is.But they remember what you wore,and how you smelled…
On that first date.
They remember every story you've ever told them- like ever. But forget what you just said.
They don't remember to water the plants,or to take out the trash. But they don't forget how to make you laugh.
Poets are forgetful.
Because...they are busy remembering the important things. Like how to love someone with all their heart.

Randy McPeek

Can't it just be fun?
Does there have to be meaning?
Keep it simple please.

You're the vehicle.
Don't struggle with what to write.
Just let the words flow.

You have slaughtered my kind without
justification and planted red mums
to line the new concrete sidewalk
to your church; Sundays,
as you traipse our roots
we will listen to your
sanctimonious
secrets.