you never asked me how i was so i think that's why i never told you how i felt

from all the books i have read,
i have imagined my life to have much better storyline.

Find a Poet Not a poser, not a "it's just a hobby" poet. Find one who mumbles lines as they scramble for a pen at breakfast; who shakes their head randomly when their thoughts aren't rhyming properly;  who has notebooks stashed around the house that you must never touch.
2. Listen Savor the spoken words, for those are harder to express. Keep in mind that they can't be edited and re-written, and be forgiving when a mistake is made.
3. Read The body speaks as loudly as words on a page do. When their eyes are closed or focused on the ceiling and the fingers are tapping out syllables, recognize the unique process. Respect the need for quiet, because if you look closely, you can read the poem on their face before they write it on the page.
4. Write Write your story together. Grab hold of the pen and hang on as you move across the page of life. Sometimes you will dance across, others you will be dragged. You may have to cross out a word, or a line, or a page, but don't give up. Discouragement is a poet's biggest enemy, inarticulateness their biggest fear. So end each day with a semi-colon, because the story will never end the way you think it will, and there must be room for more. There is always room for more, more words, more laughter, more tears, more love,
When you love a poet.

remember the time when i tried to glue my hand to yours and
claimed that glue would be the reason we'd stay together?
you didn't stop holding my hand that day.

i walked 20 steps from your side of the bed into the bathroom,
the towel smells a little bit like you and you promised
it would stay there for another 20 years.

you know i'd stay here forever, right? when you're in a rocker and
i'm eating puree, ask me again to tell you the story of us.
i'll tell you a story better than cinderella or snow white.

they tell me i'm poetic but poems are written with meaning.
i write because i am searching for ways to describe you but
you're too big for poetry and i love you too much for language.

You don’t like being touched so we don’t hug. Hugging is weird. Affection is weird but you’ll send me pick up lines like you’re a guy at the bar and I’m the girl you’re trying to take home for the night. People tell us we should just get married ‘cause I know I’ll never find someone who will treat me right like you do. We’d be lesbians, except you’re on the hunt for tail and I’m not into you like that.

When you were 11 and I was 13, people used to think we were sisters because we looked alike. I used to think you were kind of weird (but I think over the years it’s gotten worse) and now your weirdness just adds to your charm. I’m not sure what I was thinking the first 3 or 4 years of our friendship when I decided that there were other people who were more important than you, but I’m glad I learned my lesson. There’s only one person in this world who will sit in my car with me for 10 minutes while I cry and bring me eyeliner without a question and that’s you.

We’re not the inseparable set of friends where we have to go everywhere with each other, be everywhere with each other and be attached to the hip because God knows we’d be so sick of each other by the end of the day but I’m glad we’re the kind to be real with each other and not be butthurt. If you tell me I look fat in something, I’ll tell you that you look worse. We call each other names but we’ll still stay married on Facebook. We talk once, maybe twice a day but we (almost) always pick up each other’s phone calls when needed because sometimes I just need to hear the comfort of your voice. We’re a long distance relationship without the miss-you ***.

I’m not sure how often I tell you this but here it is again: i love you and I’m glad you’re in my life. I don’t like calling people my best friend because it leaves a bitter taste in my mouth but you’re my best friend and it took me nearly 8 years now to have it finally hit because when I’m crying, when my heart is broken, when I’m stressed out, or when I have some really great news, you’re the first to hear it. And probably the greatest part is that I’m not anything less with you.

You’re the kinda chick where you ogle numbers and numbers of guys on end but is too shy to actually say anything because contrary to what everyone else thinks, I know all you want is to be loved for who you are and one day, you’ll find someone who will do that for you. And until then, I’ll fill in his space the best I can (mostly because I’m missing a pretty vital ***** otherwise we’d be mates for life). Sometimes you can be steadfastly cool. Sometimes I’m embarrassed to be seen in public with you. But most of the time it’s both and it’s what makes being with you different from being around anyone else.

Aside from this weird burst of affection I have for you, you’re probably off somewhere getting drunk off your *** and you’ll be texting me the next day telling me how drunk you were last night and I’ll laugh because you’re an alcoholic in the making and that’s just the kind of people we are with each other. It’s just nice to have someone who’s been there through the good, the bad, and the ugly and still be able to call my friend. We don’t judge each other even though you have more dirt on me than my own parents do.

Once gay marriage becomes legal in Texas, I know we’re gonna get hitched and raise some dope lookin’ children while we sit in Jin’s Korean bbq and scrounge for babes and convince them to date us.

We were drunk on each other—at 2:36 on a Monday morning, we couldn’t take our hands off of each other. I turned to you and closed my eyes; I was in love with the idea of you, but I didn’t love you. Your fingers trickled down my arm and your lips pressed against my shoulder, mouthing words that I guessed said something along the lines of “I’m glad I met you” but I chose to ignore them in my oblivious manner. You tried to hold my hand, but I pulled away—the more physical it got, the less intimate I wanted it to be. We were drunk on each other, but I wanted to sober up; the morning after was my least favourite part.