Tell me what is it like to be happy
Because I haven´t been in a while now
I forgot what it feels like,
So please tell me now.

Her arms around you
and the smile on your face
you dont seem to notice
that everything for me is gray.

Everything is dark
nothing belongs in my mind.
the sounds around me seem to be quiet
and I can´t see anymore what matters.

Hold me like you used to
Let´s take it back
I want to remember
what it feels like.

Your life is a poem,
You are the poet.

Your body is the canvas,
Your hands are the brushes.

Your mouth is music,
Your words are a song.

Your eyes are the prologue
Deep from your soul.

The entire world screams
Get up and fight,
you coward.
But you hold your ground.
Stand by your comrades
like a soldier.
Protect your friends
like a shepherd.

You're no coward.
You're a lover,
a peacemaker in this world of war.
Love will always be
louder than any cry,
stronger than the chains that bind us.
You fight for the what you love,
but sometimes
what you love fights back,
harder.

She's different then most
that's what I like
she's odd
that's what I like
she says and thinks things others would never ponder
I wish she was mine
I wish it everyday
she's such a major part of my life
I would be withered without her
I would do anything to remain by her side
I want to express my feelings
feelings,
what a horrid thing these are
blinding us from reality
then making the impossible
possible

She will see
my affection
my desire
everything
I have taken her good and bad
and her me
I wonder if she knows of this blinding desire
growing
every day
every second

You are the dream
with all your faults
in my eyes you are perfection
complete perfection.

I would trade it all to be yours
and you mine
it all means nothing
compared to you

Compared to you
heaven is hell
light is dark

Every moment I spend with you
is the single best moment of my life
every smile
every laugh
priceless
you are priceless

You see threw all my *******
and see the true me
the one I'm scared to show
the one I frear the world will reject
you see it
and accept it
you accept me

I will never be able to repay
what you've given to me

STINGING* twinges of bitterness,
and pale shades of hurting,
pang inside my chest;
throb within my center-most core...
I've been skinned, ripped raw,
by love's unrequited grief ~ ~ ~
I can't *NOT hear the raging voices -
those that are bellowing, screaming,
bouncing about, their echoing words;
accusations, deep inside my brain...
misery-bearing voices, incessantly asking,
asking their intrusive, probing questions,
and demanding that I see;
that I recognize the truth,
the truth behind my suffering...

                     (THE voices speak...)
"are you ******* stupid??? -
as well as beyond any and all hope insane???
it's forever the same!!!
an unavoidable occurrence!!!
the outcome destined to never change!!!
but somehow, this is where you've come,
the grounds upon which you've landed,
once more, yet again, despite!
thus, it is held in your own hands,
the significant bulk of the blame lies... ~ ~ ~
"your unwillingness to relinquish,
your loathsome, hoping dreams,
pleading vainly on for a change of results,
while ignoring, forcing into hiding,
how well aware you are,
deep inside of yourself,
that all that will be, shall be the same;
precisely identical,
to each of those times gone before -
exactly matching, the consequences,
eventually to arrive...
shameful, your stubborn, fierce determination,
so encumbering, powerful, so strong -
you fought, knocking down your knowledge,
and your own inner truths!
an utter foolishness -
foolish and ludicrous, the denial;
the denying of that which you should,
instead, be all too closely acquainted with...
refusal to acknowledge the power that is,
in this, contained, and ought not,
without dire repercussions,
be lightly ignored or denied ~ ~ ~
"strange, it's so vastly idiotic,
and now, the pitiful disgrace that is-
-is you; what you've allowed;
permitted yourself to become,
just for the sake of that-
-that nonsensical, ugly emotion;
the feeling which you call 'love'..."

I'D watched while, my misguided,
rebellious self, went sneaking -
crept up to the forbidden door within-
-within herself, and,
ever so quietly,
reached for the lock to unlatch,
then saw as it was freed,
swinging slowly, silently open... ~ ~ ~
this door, that I've been taught,
in a past chapter of life, years ago...,
to be a passage far better left and ignored;
one better kept shut up and locked tight ~ ~ ~
but this door, so irresistible -
...one I've forced myself to learn of,
yet repeatedly, purposefully,
have allowed myself to forget, and,
indubitably, come to be reminded of,
after a time, incessantly over and,
then over still, again and again...
I brought in pain and animosity,
and they've found a realm to reign here ~ ~ ~
how sickening, that through fault,
that it's all only mine,
and mine, alone, to conquer;
to settle this, my creation,
this that is, my current fight...
so oh yes, regretfully, but true,
I must be stupid,
stupid indeed -
- just a stupid,
stupid little girl... ~ ~ ~

Every writer has a cold heart. It lives inside the apartment building of their ribs, on the very top floor close to the fire escape, where it can flee through the window if need be. They like to ruin the things they write about. Even the moon feels broken when they’re done with it. Nothing a writer mentions in their work can ever be whole again.

If writers had gardens, they would be full of words, buried deep down under the sweet dark soil like vegetable seeds. They take root and grow there, sometimes for months, sometimes for years, until a story is born, and then they bloom. That’s why so many well-known authors had green thumbs. In their spare time you can find them out on the terrace, smoking a cigarette or drinking tea, maybe down at the beach with their limbs splayed out in the water like the five points of a star.

Writers are easy to fall in love with. They make their lovers feel like ghosts, transient and luminescent. When they have *** it’s never just ***. They speak when they’re making love, endless sentences of poetry and prose. Some of their best works are created when wrapped around the body of another. They’re always taking mental snapshots of the way their skin fits into someone else’s. They notice every little thing. Each bruise, freckle, callus, and vein. They could write an anthology all about the hidden parts of the body.

When a writer captures you, all you can do is stand like a deer in headlights until they’re finished with you. They’ll keep you locked up in their den for days, their pen endlessly moving across paper. You’ll never forget the sound of that typewriter. It’ll haunt you in your sleep. They’ll let you drown. If you were at the bottom of the ocean, with the bubbles already escaping from your lips, they wouldn’t save you. There would be no anchor to throw down to you, no lifeboat to come your way. Writers always let their subjects drown. It’s just easier that way.

And if a writer falls in love with you, you’re done for. Be prepared for a terrifying existence. They’ll want to watch you all the time. You’ll live off of ramen noodles and packets of instant coffee, and your limbs will always be wrapped around theirs in the bathtub. The coldness of their heart may melt a little, until it’s less like the Arctic and more like a glacier. Only you can warm your hands over their fire. But they’ll **** you, slowly, without mercy. They’ll **** you with pure poetry and prose. You can never escape from their stories. If a writer falls in love with you, you will forever be caught up in the web of their words.