how does one go about expressing their love to a girl?
I've never felt like this about a girl, before
but everything - my heart, pounding and vulnerable and so impossibly fragile - now seems to depend on
her.
her laughter is like the colour yellow
and it turns my vision hazy every time
the expression she wears is innocent and unassuming
but those hazel eyes are white-hot fire
she's got this rosewood hair that floats around her, ethereal,
her hands are gentle, delicate
her heart is so full of love
her arms, filled with kidness
she turns the blood in my veins to crackling flames.
look at her mouth.
what can I say. how can I vocalize this kind of want. this kind of hunger.



I'd never tell. no, I'd never say a word.

the stench of ***** corrodes my nostrils
my battle wounds are scratchy and scabbed and
concealed.
raw fingertips; dry, muti-layered, pink and
un-uniform
heavy brain. aching, maimed.
chai tea sips, warm and pure and not a threat
of weight gain.

I see Myself in the upside down and
walk over to her, in the dark, ageless emptiness.
part of me feels that the right thing to do is hold
her hand, but another part of me wants her
to hurt, to cry, to bleed, to improve.
I don't know how to end this sonnet.

every time you touch me
microscopic gunpowder explosions materialize
all over my defenseless body
balled up in my chest and spread over the surface of my skin
jittering like static shocks through my stomach and legs
i'm pulled toward you by a force so painfully strong
my face toward yours
my body toward your body
that my mind needs to tighten the reign it has on my mustang heart




                                                  i wonder what my touch does to you?

How silly of me
Everything I'd ever wanted
Staring me in the face
And I chose to turn away.

Quiet ecstasy settles around me like vanilla ice-cream snow

all I see is laughter
I can taste the moonlight
and hear the waves droning in the distance;

I'm a child again
and after all this time, I am once again
happy.

amidst the decaying, black soil, a daisy
Blooms
neither a figment of one's imagination, nor abrasively prominent,
it sits quietly
Hope
defiant amongst the encumbering pain
a lone promise unyieldingly rooted

Your skin, dusted with cinnamon and glowing with sunlight,
is precious in His sight.

I won't write a generic poem
seeking approval and attention and
fame and fulfilment.
I have these all already,
given to me by my lord Jesus.

I'm here simply to tell you, you
with your sweaty hands,
your ugly toes,
your bad hair day,
the bags beneath your "washed out" eyes and
the wrinkles above your eyebrow
the too-wideness of your hips,
your broad shoulders,
your pale skin

Yes. You Are Lovely.

I love the enchanting crispness brought about by biting cold and rain which demands attention.
I love the cry of the trees that sway in the wind.
Their silent scream.

you're just the same.
no different.
what a stupid little fool ive been
the memory of you which once warmed my bones now  burns like acid, rancid
it is time to build up walls once more