Imagine yourself in a park.
You are standing next to a fountain, surrounded by tens of people but all you hear is the soft trickling of water behind the stone bench you rest upon. You hear couples laughing and children playing. On the other side of the waterfall is a calm lake, contrasting to the busy noise of the people. The lake is then surrounded by a circling of trees, acting a a natural barrier to the stressful office buildings past the park. You live in the city, amongst constant crowds, sirens and traffic lights.
But standing next to the angel fountain and the soothing vibes of the lakes and its trees, you are at peace.

I don't think I could ever let go
Of the taste of chapstick on your lips
Or the feel of your hands on my hips
Or the warmth of your body next to mine
I don't think I could ever let go
Of the way you kissed me goodnight
Or the feel of your hand in mine
Or because you never said goodbye

Dance.* The art of the body. An outlet for the soul.
Healing for your heart. Freedom of thoughts.
Walls broken down. A locked cage left open.
Emotion into movement. Shows hurting words unspoken.
Relief of pain and stress. Lifts the weight off your back.
Troubles disappear. Worlds fade away around you.
Lost in the moment. Feelings flow out.
Life slows down. Peace found through dance.

There was a soft mysteriousness about him. Subtle, but it was there. He seemed sad, but hopeful. He had a kind heart, but life was not as kind to him. He was shy, but beautiful. His hair was dark, but he showed pale skin and pale eyes.  Eyes that absorbed and sent back light from every shade of blue, gray, and white. Muse-worthy. He had battles inside of him that he could not understand. He was unaware of the fact that a girl across the table, who had not even spoken to him, could recognize he was created by and of galaxies.

Learn to love the fall,
to disappear like a radical ghost
shaking chains as a forgotten name.

Make your nests in piles of broken mirror glass,
court heartbreak like a 19th century candlelit lover.

Smile at the No,
bring it into your chest,
breathe it in warm.

Collapse the roof,
blow out the window,
cradle your shattered legs and kiss them like sleeping children
when they try to drag your broken body from the burning building.

And get your blood all over everything.

I have three main purposes of writing concerning audiences other than myself:
1. I want to make people cry.
2. I want to make people question their morals.
3. I want to show people the magic of poetry.