And I want to tell her that I understand
what it feels like to be fake, insignificant,
and a shadow on the sidewalk of society.

And I want to tell her that I also borrow
the experiences of others --
that I, too, learn feelings
by stopping and staring at personal wreckage,
like a tourist of emotions,
like an inevitable wish of a human being.

god made stars
for starving poets

when they look up
they forget
how hungry they are

    ~mce

Id like to think I am a love poet. Truth is I wrote about love because when we sat together and had a picnic under a tree with the setting sun and the stars and moon as our chaperone it's the closest thing to God That I've ever even dreamt of.. I like to think I am a love poet. With tales of escapades and love that dance across our lips. because if there is one thing this world still needs its a little more love and I want to pull you close and hold your hands and share secrets that we always thought would follow us to our graves! To write a never ending story with today always being yesterday's page. To jump chapters ahead even if we aren't ready because why not lived like you've never lived before. To paint murals of tears and smiles and that night when you finally admitted to yourself that hey, maybe love is worth the risk. And maybe on that day you and I can tell each other about that one time in high school where you did something stupid and crazy but you will never regret it because it was about more than that moment. It was about throwing off chains. About finding that moment where a kiss is all it takes to be content. I'd like to think I'm a love poet, not because of flower words or trying to capture your affection. I'd like to think I'm a love poet because I prefer it to the alternative. I am a love poet because, the only Thing I've ever felt good at, is loving you.

You could put a bullet through my brain, and I'd still miss you in hell.

They'll sew your lips shut in pretty little stitches
To keep your screams quiet,
Because beauty is nothing less than immeasurable pain.
I hear you'll be grateful though;
Your face will be lovely
And because of your tightly bound lips,
No one can smell the way your insides will rot.