Hand shaky, balancing the easel
Paint brush tight within grip
I've never seen a rainbow
Come and go so quick

It seems as if the rain clouds
Parted only for a moment today
Grey desolates,
but fear not, the colours will make their way

Shoes paint the streets with difference
Among all crowds, the brush flicks
But drop your tools & raise your arms to the sky
For you must paint the wind with your fingertips.

Don't ever fall in love with a poet
because they will indeed admire and watch your every move
they will write about how the pen marks on the side of your palm when you write
don't ever because they will trace
every single freckle you have on your face and
write about the color of each and every one of them and
describe how they smile so brightly under the sunlight
they will want you to want to know every little thing about them
even if it's just what hand they write with and want you
to be wondering why they write with that specific hand when in
reality it doesn't even matter

the poet will watch the way you dig
your eyes onto that book and your small quick remarks onto the 26 letters all crumpled together and will know that everyday at 5:28 p.m. you smile

they will look deeply into your eyes
to see if they can at least take a little
peak of your soul and they will write
about you like if you were the only
thing they see good in this world

they will want to know what you think
about when you look at them and
see if you also count each and
every freckle and hope and write  
that you do but they will
love you endlessly and they will
show you that they love you and only you

but don't date a poet if you aren't
capable to watch them and
admire their imperfections
when they sleep late at night
beside you.

j.f

I'm ashamed; posting
these awkward poems; expecting
you'd read this and smile.

We crawl into a book,
slipping in between print,
wrapping ourselves up in the comforting words.
It sits there waiting,
to invite us to its world,
sad dust collects when untouched.
Beauty in the creators imagination,
thought provoking, sad, happy -
emotions created by print on a page.
The smell of earth and must.
An exciting adventure to happen,
or an old and reliable friend.

Paint for me a dream
Colored in hues of emotion
Steeped in love
And dusted in music

Fate will make our paths cross
But is it what I want? My future is someone else's, and soon it will be yours.

People say we are for each other, but is it truly so? A companionable silence will follow but nothing will grow. They say time will bring us love
I think not. Acceptance will grow but not of love

Love eludes me in this destiny, this cage I'm trapped in
My choices are yours, your choices are others
We are what they define us to be.
Love for us - It's nothing but an illusion
The only love we will ever have is to forever be
In love
With the idea of love.

I know that the clo-
ser I get to you, the hard-
er I fall apart.

It's not that I don't love you. It's the time I read my mom's old journals and every other paragraph included my fathers name. It's that he cheated on every girlfriend he had with my mom. It's that my mom didn't care she was a second choice or a one night stand. It's that my mother never talked to anyone about him after he got married to one of the many girlfriends. It's that she took twenty sleeping pills on the night of what would've been their anniversary. It's that he doesn't even know she's dead.

It's not that I don't love you. It's the couple I overheard in the bread aisle arguing over wheat or white. It's that I heard the woman say a lot of "she" and "****" and I saw her crumble to the ground. It's that he just shook his head and said he was sorry over and over again.

It's not that I don't love you. It's that my best friend is in love with a boy on the other side of the country. It's the morning she took a shower and cried over him. It's that he wasn't even awake to do anything about it. It's that he's always three hours behind and thousands too many miles away. It's that I mean both physically and mentally sometimes.

It's not that I don't love you. It's my geometry teacher, who brought up her husband when she taught me tangents. It's that she also brought up her husband when she taught me the circle unit
too. It's that she gets quiet and smiles after she talks about him. It's that he's been passed away for seven years now and she still has so much to say. It's that she still wears her wedding ring. It's that when she taught me special right triangles, I wondered what her laugh might sound like if he were still here.

What I'm trying to say is; It's not that I don't love you. It's that I do.