in the pleasure of discovering
words rhymes rhythms
i'm a gluttonous poet.

day and night
bite of my growing appetite
makes me sink low

i don't notice
broken pieces
shattered peaces
around me

i breathe in writing
eat and drink
poetry

crazed obsessed stressed
my poetry
like any other debauchery
is an escape ride
someplace to hide

i'm a poet
subservient
to the pleasures of words rhymes rhythms.

I know he's a star
a fantasy
but I won't give up
I want him to love me
I'm good enough
I just need the chance
my sparkling personality
and a little romance
Now I'm no stalker
just love from afar
that wasn't me
tailing his car
I know it's not real
but I don't care
nothing else in my life is working
I'm not the least bit scared
I'll live in my dreamworld
I'm safe and cozy there
and dream of his blue eyes
and long silky blond hair

She’s brewing like rich wine
the older she gets
her each added faceline
my eyes satiates.

She’s huing like violets
purpling is her soul
tho older she gets
she's never too ole.

She’s frothing like nectar
honeying in core
feels endless this affair

I’m loving her more.

The spark of passion ignites the heart, until it is engulfed in a conflagration of notions, as curiosity triumphs over caution.

The seed of wisdom, planted in fields of knowledge, is cultivated and refined in kingdoms of intellect to innovate speeches of freedom.

Blisters in sweaty palms, rubbing against the pen, as it drifts between the paths of future and past, where hope is met and joy is felt.

Consumed by epiphanies, the heart-beat is felt by trembling hands, squeezing the pen for inspiration, to bewilder imaginations, giving birth to new perceptions.

Walk! like you'll never stop,
Run! when you need it,
Stop! like you've found someone who made you dumb,
and Die! when it's all wasted.

You don't need yourself to suffer,
People today are so mean.
They can hurt you,
And they can leave you.

Don't blame them,
Blame yourself .
Don't run for them,
Just walk slowly and let them see who's dumb!

When I read
Someone's literature,
Prose, poetry,
No matter,
I enjoy the read
For the read,
Voice, style
Words, meter.
A combination
Of fact and fiction,
Shared understanding
Through emotion.
That's the art
Of literature:
When writer,
Not autobiographer,
Strikes the nail,
Strums the chord,
Touches
The subconscious
******.
One seldom
Reveals
Hard facts
Of one's life:
Writers give insight
Readers find right.

Is it wrong that I want him to myself? That I want to lock him in a caged like a rare bird that can fly as high as he wants to? I want him to only be mine. If it was up to me he would never leave my side because I love him. I won't let anyone touch him but me. He will never see the outside world unless I want him to. Hes so kind and warm hearted, lovable, friendly. As soon as I found him I knew what I was in for. I want him to see only me. I don't want anyone's paws to touch this delicate creature...