She thinks she is the kind of beauty that many worship.
All thin figure,
All dark eyes,
All nails that leave marks on your back and
All her lip biting and soft moaning

She thinks her beauty is a set of curves
She thinks her beauty is legs
Hips
Suggestive submission
She thinks her beauty is just talent,
She thinks her beauty is just an act
She thinks she's average, and her beauty is just made up

But her beauty is her eyes after the make up has run off.
They glow the sweetest, lightest green
(Her favorite color)
When the mask of mascara melts in a scalding hot shower

Her beauty melts you the same way.

Her beauty is the way she melts into your arms.

The way she talks like she doesn't care who listens
And listens like you're the only one that ever listened to her
The way she can say two things with one word and mean both of them.
Her beauty is persistence.

She would rather **** Superman than marry him
And I have no doubt that she could do either if she wanted to.

Her beauty is paying rent when she is already gone.
Her beauty is talking to the new guy when nobody else does, just to make sure he has someone to talk to.
Her beauty isn't in wanting to come in, but in her want to stay.
Her beauty is freedom seeking a place to tie itself down,
Her beauty is love for the sake of healing,
Even when the love isn't there.

Her beauty is the way she gives her faith to every good thing that comes her way.
The way she loves her dog.
More so, it's the way her dog loves her back.

The way her grandmother loves her back.
The way her friends love her.
The way a complete stranger can feel warm for days,
Just by meeting her for minutes.
The way nice guys have a real chance.
The way that she gives seconds chances to everybody,
The way anybody would risk humiliation to have one.

Her beauty is so deep that people can't climb back out once they've fallen in.

She thinks it's her ability to make love that's beautiful.
But I want her to know,
So desperately,
It's much simpler than that.

She is beautiful because it's so **** easy to love her.

I am wilting flowers on the living room
table that you just can’t throw away.
I am laughter held far too long and
the lake you wish to swim but not drown in.
I am in the background of every tourist’s photos
and in the foreground of nobody’s thoughts.
I am the bird that forgot to migrate and
will freeze to death without ever knowing why.
I am pants that never fit quite right.
I am tearful 2 am apologies and stepped on toes
while learning to dance.
I am the alarm that never wakes you from nightmares.

You are a warm bed on a cold winter morning,
the first to be chosen and the last to be forgotten.
You are the chocolate placed on a hotel bed’s pillow,
stolen kisses in the dark and hand holding in the light.
You are Colorado sunrises and Pennsylvania sunsets.
You are hit radio singles and dusty vinyl records,
premium cigars, silk bowties and overflowing picnic baskets.
You are Disney movies and handwritten letters,
and you are the city lights peeking over the horizon.
Truth is, you are mine to keep and I am yours to bear.

I never wrote about Love
Not before now
Because I was never sure
But after today
I think that I'm ready to try.

What is love?
Is it nothing but a
Chemical reaction in the brain?
Ascribing worth?
Maybe
But it's more than that
To me at least.

Love is
Knowing someone's full of faults
And staying anyway.

Love is
Making limits
And respecting them.

Love is
Your heart skipping a beat
At the sound of a name.

Love is
Fighting to not fall apart
When you disagree.

Love is
Wanting to give
A random hug.

Love is
Wanting to receive
A random hug.

Love is
Crying for
Someone.

Love is
The feeling I get
When I fight to tell you
"Kaydee, I love you"
And saying it anyway.

Finally, Love is
Crying
Reminiscing
Dreaming
Wondering
Waiting
Being

Together.­

I now have no control over how I love you.
I cannot hold it back.
I don't want to hold it back.
I just want to hold you
Talk to you
Fall asleep with you
Laugh with you
Cry with you

And that's why I thought I was ready to write about love.

people are always changing walls
                   new paint
                            wall paper
                            filling holes
                            knocking them down
walls would be so self conscious
    no one likes them
    the way they are

Some days I stare at my hands,
Trying to find my singularity-
Individuality!
Lost in the muddle of plurality!
When you exchanged my heart,
And swapped in your own.

Mind racing at [fifty]
miles an hour while I start
to lose track of each hour
I've spent with the mistress
that placed my heart in
her garden of sunflowers.

Sunlight accelerating
photosynthesis while developing
a thesis as to why all these pieces
are perfectly falling into place.

Chasing love is what I'm known for
and she finally slowed down enough for me to catch her.

To think that there could be a day where each of
these poems she'd grow to hate, triggers minds to raceand doing everything I can to make sure that no one takes her place.

Hope I'm not being too possessive even though
I'm known to be obsessive and keeping everything else bottled up
so please excuse if every kiss leads to something aggressive.  

Every kiss bursts a leak,
surroundings become mute as  her moans
become the only language allowed to speak.

Stopping myself from revealing
details classified as intimate,
and I'm convinced this is love
it's just that I'm a little new to it.

I'm learning to record this story with ink and permanent print
so that when solitude moves back in
I can refer back to your memory and hold on to it.

Trying to end this poem perfectly
and I don't know about you,
but the closest thing to perfect
begins with the letter [two]