I found that I cannot cry, and expect, in my tears, that a poem has been written.
Emotion, and heart, and feeling are not the only components to art,
and boy is it ******* hard to come up with the rest.
Sometimes, I’m so choked up on inspiration,
that I can’t get my figures to move well enough to type or write.
I’ll have a feeling in my head, so strong that it washes away any words for explanation.

Right now, I’m stuck, so I stumble, and I fall.
The poem collapses onto itself,
And I’m back at the beginning again.
With so much feeling and ideas.
And Nothing to show for it.

Nobody is ever happy with what they got.

My body clings and hangs on me like damp clothes,
It's my favorite outfit.

My body is random brush strokes and smears of paint,
People have seen it as art.

My body acts as plain, simple soil,
On it, I have grown like a tree.

My body is an opinion.
Interpret it as you will.

I'm still learning

:-)

*** isn't love...
*** is better
When you are protected.
Everything is safe,
And nothing at risk.

Love, I am told,
(Though I am not yet this old--)
Is best when the walls are torn down
And the best is at stake
And the shields are long gone
And you bring out all the wrongs--

*** is a fire,
But it burns in the hearth;
Love tears through the forest,
Open flame--