I love words and
I love metaphors.
I love the muse that inspires the words
and how flawlessly these words form metaphors.

I love deciding how people perceive me.
Even I am beautiful when painted metaphorically.

I add a poem because I feel a should
because I want to
because I can.

But sometimes I shouldn't
Sometimes like now
when my words don't add anything but instead take away.

So really this poem is selfish.
This poem is being spit on by a best friend
or being stood up by a blind date.

You'll forget it
because you have better things to do.
Like joining a cause
or giving to a charity
or liking an inspirational post on Facebook.

While I'm writing selfish poems
you're winning humanitarian of the year...
**Congrats.

Where's my inner beauty.
Rolled up in a spliff.
Where's my peace of mind.
Jumping off a cliff

Writers are schizophrenic
Because in every character we create
there lingers a bit of ourselves
or who we wish we were.

I bled because it's the only way I knew how
to love you.
All that red.

Dip your fingers in it -
the romantic parts of me.

Color me all the shades
in the spectrum of your affection.

Love is not loving the perfect person.
(Anyone can do that.)
Love is loving an imperfect person, perfectly.