Hope
Rises
Like
A
Phoenix
From
  The
Ashes
Of
Shattered
Dreams

Intensity in a writer is easy to spot
its in the callus on the finger that braces the pen
Its in the way she cannot breathe
when she looks at you
or until she finishes that line.
It's in the way you lose her for hours
as she writes, or reads, or paints you in poetry.
Its the way she tries to find words
that work better than I love you
Its that her love letters are 4 pages long
its the way she laments not being able to convey
exactly how she feels
its that sometimes her words don't seem to be constructed of ink
but life blood.
and that she is not flesh and bone
but paper and ink
She'll leave bruises with teeth
scratches with too short nails
because for just a moment she wants to consume you
we are all like that
we just want to be in your blood
to infiltrate your mind only for a moment.
It's in that she'll always remember the things that hurt you
every scar you've ever shown.
but not what she had for breakfast
it's her propensity for addiction
she'll say you make her want to be better
do not doubt her
you are the sky, the ink well, the page...
you are every beautiful passage
she doesn't love anything the way she loves words
you are words.... you are the thing itself.
you are the only thing even close in beauty
to the page.

You get what you give
And you give what you get
We curse all that is wicked
Yet we are our own threat

Feel the world inside you
We shape our every day
Better your intentions
And watch what you say

Karmas a *****
But at least she plays fair
The universe is in you
Beyond your mask

Bare.

Little girls, little boys
Candy canes and flashy toys
A soft call, an enticing treat
Two obedient little feet
A huge smile, an invitation
A fun adventure to damnation
Restricted visions, muffled cries
Sugar bricks leading to demise

Summer days and spring mornings have gone
Every leaf has fallen from its parent tree
Homes are now blanketed with thick ivory snow
Under this pitch-black sky, I stood alone
Nothing but the wind's breeze as my company

I stood alone; I have always stood alone

Miles, I have travelled and many faces, I have descried
I walked on different lands but to no avail
Summer nights and spring mornings passed
Snowy nights and the sight of falling leaves I have seen

Under this pitch-black sky, alone, I still stood alone

Living in those strange hours,
between each tick and tock.
Melting the moment's
from the clock.

A wakeful sleep,
all passes by.
Ideas appear,
then slide away.
Maybe they fell
below the bed
on which I lay?

Turning those strange hours,
around my mind.
Looking for the ideas
I never find.