No          words          on          Earth
                                                                ­are
                                                                ­          more
                                                                ­                    powerful
                                lips.                                                       than
                ­your                        I do                                              an
             on                                     not want                                    outstretched
        syll­ables                                          habited                                  hand.
      than                                                    declarati­ons                           Nothing
    more                                                      or                                          more
   are                                                ­           shrouded                               than
    words                                                     whispers,                               a
     those                                                    I       ­                                   breeze
     me                                                   want                                       in
        show                                        daring               ­                        the
           me,                                   proclamations              ­           everlasting
              tell                              and an                                   vastness
                  not                     outstretched hand.                   of
                       Do                                                         space,
                          once did.                                    words no
                                        longer ignite me as they

I spent my night with him tonight
Wrapped up in covers
Wrapped up in dreams
He consoled me of all of my troubles
And reminded me that life is not all as it seems

There was some magic tonight
He made me believe in love again
Like when we first were together
Staying out past 2 a.m.
Hiccuping from laughing so hard

The connection we had returned again
And He inspired me
Instead of you, to keep writing

The way he looked at me,
The way he held My hand,
The way he smiled that smile.

You are not my muse anymore
That's why I wanted to give up writing
Because everywhere I turned, you were waiting for me
In every blank Title (optional)
In any poem I read, I found you.

But the freeing thing I realized tonight
By lying in his arms
Is that poetry is what I make of it
I can read a poem about love
And it doesn't have to make me think of you
Because I have so many other wonderful people in my life
I can write about other things than heartbreak and memories
I can write of hope and happiness

So yes, you were the reason I started writing poetry
But that doesn't mean that you should be the reason I stop.

Stark, empty bullet shells scattered, by chance,
At her feet -- bedecking the ablazed brooks
Like young poppies glistening from the rain

Of the hellish hurricanes yet to come.
Man’s fear fans flames stronger than any wind --
Strength that ruins cities, yet keeps her sane

Like the arms of a mother now afflict’d --
Boiled black, bloodshot eyes. He is not her:
Take his hand, your pride has nothing to gain.

This darkness sated with dimly shining stars
Is not the end of your heavy heartbeat
Take his hand and see the red dawn again.

You are not my children,
tender as you are.
You are not my lover,
though you cause my heart to yearn.
You are not my sun,
or my moon,
or my star.

I set you on this rock;
you will not make me burn.

You are simply sticks,
arranged upon the pyre.
You are clever tricks,
though you flaunt my clear desire.
You are not the match,
or the wick,
or the fire.

I set you on this rock;
To see what might transpire.

You will never be a pheasant's egg to be coddled.
You are only this: a calf led to the slaughter.

There's a pyre in my chest, silver and gold
tracing the mountains of jewels and silks,
overlooking the cliffs of lost dreams and
broken memories like a woe lost in hymn.
It constantly burns, but like throwing a
flag onto the flames, it changes intensity --
colors green and purple and blue.
  Sporadic, bursts and sparks
    that threaten to engulf the soul
      that stands too close. I'm absent in thought
        when another memory splices the embers;
          effulgent, phosphorescent, lustrous, scintillating
            with a radiance unparalleled and unchallenged.
              The burns of your skin on mine clutching
                at my throat with such a wraithlike intensity --
                  I gasp.
                    The skirts of my soul catching, ablaze and unforgiving.
                    cowering at the echo of your lips teasing a mere inch
                    from mine. It does not run, does not leap for the
                    chilled waters below, just simply lets the fire burn
                    the smell of your clothes into the air around me --
                    whimpering all the while.