her fingers tenderly feel
the alphabets on the mail
dusty from lying in the letter box

she was away these two months
and now is back to a home
cobwebbed in cold silence

crawls up her eyes
a terrifying tear

this day last year

*he was here

Maybe the reason we spend night after night
staring at a blank paper
is because the words we so desperately need to write,
are words that have not yet been created.

These are the lies we've broken
and the promises we've told.

Sing to me freedom,
fight for the song.

Surrender to the King,
bow to the battle.

Drink the blood
and spill the poison.

Confused by your words.
Tell them softly.
No questions allowed.

Have you ever thought about falling in love with a poet?
It's such a simple notion because they too are people just like you
but the ability to constantly immortalize
Is that not attractive?
If you fall in love with a poet
alive you'll be for eternity
in a world that you
never could imagine
but one that they imagined you in.
It's a simple thought and a simple attraction that made an intricate
impact on their lives.
You are the reason they write
the reason that they can so innately describe what it is to be in love.
It's nice, isn't it?
To fall asleep knowing that this person is still awake writing about
how much more they're going to love you the next day.
Writing about the moment that you first caught their eye
the moment that they knew you too loved them.
Falling in love with a poet is a guaranteed way to live forever in their mind
to be the muse that they'll always use
to be the one person they'll never abuse.
Falling in love with a poet would be the adventure to end all
because in every word you would exist through 6 or 7 lifetimes.
So fall in love with a poet
because not only will their words convince
they're guaranteed to show it.

White pages
stained and blemished
Once ******
now yellowed with age

Passionate words
blurred and faded
by tears
long since dried

Thin lines
holding memories
of kisses, soft touches
and pleading eyes

Paper treasures
Printed gems
Buried
by a sea of years

No one knows
why they are kept
locked away
in a cherished nook

Until they are held
by trembling hands
on lonely nights
when old hearts ache

The absence of you seems stiff and crinkled,
Like a crumpled piece of paper.

Ink blots and words crossed,
Just discarded verses and rhythms sprawled endlessly.

Incomplete maybe in a way,
Because I no longer keep your name on my lips.
Only hidden in sheets of paper.

Can you feel the silence?
Like a discarded notebook.
To full to continue,
Lines fill the margin so it's set aside.

Even words escape me now in this,
Paused in my last verse...

Sometimes, rarely often,
I lie awake, awake at night.
I wonder, wander, ponder,
The theme of you and I.

Though my soul blooms sick,
With ever lasting, lasting doubt,
I try to find, fend, comprehend,
Just how I'll go without.

You and I, such doomed hope,
This play of such, such cruelty.
Fate molded, melded, welded,
I to you and you to me.

Through scenes of flawed perfection,
We dance, dance and sigh.
Still flitting, flaunting, wanting,
Our freedom and the sky.