Writing is exhausting.
I feel as if I am scrambling to scratch down
all of my feelings
before they drift away,
leaving myself drained and open for all to see.

Writing is exhilarating.
My fingers cannot move fast enough
as I let emotions spill onto the page,
relieving the building tension
that was once pressing down on my chest.

Writing rescued me.

Flowers sway in summer’s breeze,
regardless of the coming freeze.
Flowers dance in warm sunlight,
approaching clouds a far off plight.

We must have been flowers
grown with limited hours.
We were happy
until we weren’t.

You taste like
cotton candy dreams,
sugar snap peas,
cold coffee,
and
intimate fantasies.
You are the
watermelon pop rocks
that tingle on my tongue.

You feel like
a roaring fire,
a tickle down my spine,
a belly laugh,
and
a brand new promise.
You are the
static electricity
that zaps my skin.

You look like
my past,
my present,
my future,
and
my forever.
*You are the
man that
I love.

I bleed and heal
through
the vein of my pen