don't fall in love with the ones who only crave intimacy.
the ones who are there because
they're driven by sweet words and an even sweeter kiss.
and that drive
gets higher,
it gets faster,
as more touch gets involved.
but they only crave intimacy,
while you crave something much more.
don't fall in love with the ones who will touch you
and make you feel like
you're floating,
because soon enough they'll push you to the ground,
leaving you to question everything with nothing but
the bruises and scars on your body
left over from
their touch,
their kisses,
their words.
don't fall in love with the ones who only crave intimacy.
they won't want you how you want them.
trust me,
because I crave intimacy.

I never considered myself one for the books,
A pen felt clumsy in my hands,
Something too delicate to touch,

You introduced me to my first romance,
Tales of rivers and sweet words of Hughes,
Pages were my optics, my eyes danced in the light,

Nights turned into highways of jazz and beat poet longings,
Kerouac and Ginsberg whispering into my ear
of corrupted ivy manifestos,

Maya told me to sing, I did.
My love for her still echoes in her passing,
Set sail to the open waters where Neruda lies,
sonnet 17 afloat upon the tides,

You knew my addiction before I ever got high on the ink,
Drifting across the sentences in the midnight hours,
A prayer in thanks of what you gave to me

Settle your head on the deep, green grass,
For I'm about to take you on a journey that will last.
Wipe away your tears,
And chase away your fears.

Stare into the sky,
Do you want to fly?
Do you want to fight;
With all your might?

Do you want to prove them wrong,
For making you look anything but strong?
Do you want to carve your success,
And show them your progress?

Do you want to win,
Even if emotions slam you down with a pin?
Do you want to live,
Even if nights make you want to walk off a cliff?

You need to win this battle.
Not against society,
Not against your neighbour.
Not against your best friend,
Not against your boyfriend.

You need to win this battle,
Against the demons in your head.
You need to win this battle,
For yourself.


For once in your life, put yourself above everyone else.
*It will make a difference.

Funny how a photograph can pump blood
I only have one of you, it isn't mine
it sits here backlit
shared with all that would gladly drown in those mischief eyes.
Your smile, a moment of calm, a second of perfection caught, always brings my own.
There is no beauty like yours, no work of art has ever made me want to overflow with passion the way you do. I could write countless poems, a thousand odes to your dimples, a million sonnets to your curls, a billion lovesongs to your eyes to no avail. So I'll laugh at your jokes, and be a sturdy shoulder, a friend.  I'll wish the best for you always, while your heart keeps my secret safe. Poets shouldn't fall in love with the unloved, there aren't enough words to describe the agony.

**** girl!
Frustration strips my veins as I read your dreams, tempting me with fire
Don't you know I already burn in your flame?

**** girl!
You laugh at my blushes and tease my conscience, as I shake like a poorly mixed cocktail that wants only to slip down your silken throat.

**** girl!
I ask what you're doing, laying supple, arched by the words of angels your reply. My warning wasted on deafened ears.

**** girl!
You don't see what you've got, I do, does he? I'm flesh and blood, close enough to touch, though your soft skin never graces mine.

**** girl!
****!

I'd be lying if I said I didn't think about using every day.
I have dreams about those little yellow pills,
they don't speak to me,
or appear any different than they are in reality,
I just dream about holding them in my hands.

I couldn't do it,
recreational drug use.
I never could
no matter how many times I told myself I wasn't addicted, the truth remained
that I was.
I would tell myself "what kind of ******* is a drug addict, you're not, you're fine."
But I wasn't.
And everyday I have to tell myself "no, you cannot take those pills because you will not be able to stop"
Some days it ends there,
others I get as far as dialing my dealer's number.
Most days it's in the middle.

Being an addict is about having habits;
wake up, take three, (don't eat breakfast, the high will fade faster). Take four once the feeling leaves your legs, and four more before you go to sleep, so you can sleep.
Rinse and repeat; rinse and repeat.

Sobriety is the same way;
wake up, convince your self you don't need it.
Rinse and repeat as needed.

She helps, but she can't replace my addiction.
Although she gets me high, I can't become addicted to her, her lips do not have opiates hidden within,
but they have something better.

I don't think about getting high when I'm with her.
The high I get from her kisses is not dissimilar to that of methodone,
only their is no crash.
The high I get from caressing her thighs shares a likeness with *******,
except it costs love, not cash.
The high I get from hearing her gasp my name as our love making intensifies is very similar to that of hydrocodone,

only much, much better.

What if I told you that I loved you? What if I told you that you bring morning to life, that you are the sole character of every dream, positions varying, unlike your silent gaze.

What if I told you that your smile lights my sky better than any star could, what then?
That I have cried at your words a thousand times, as syllables needle sharp fight their war to hold you together, while I can only watch as he knowingly rips you apart.

These words are mine, thrown by my jealous tongue at your fools institution. Words of love to the jaded (though you'd say wise). Everyday you fade as I watch the horizon, hoping for your smile.
What if?

I forgot your name, in the
process of trying to remember.
It danced and spun on the tip of my tongue, then
fell to the floor, shattering into fragments of blue,
guilt stained glass. You, with
wide eyes and a firm frown, watched and cringed
at the sight of this, and I was left attempting
to remember the name of the girl of my dreams while
she stormed out of my life in those pretty six inch
heels. It wasn’t until you were gone that I remembered
everything, except how to forget you.