Right now,
I'm looking at you,
I can feel it
The connection...

And right now,
Looking at you,
I can see what we've become
And what we are yet to be...

Looking at you,
I know that I love you
And every second it goes by
I am sure you are my strength
I am sure you are my happiness
I am sure you are my life...

And I am jealous of your pillow
Cause it feels your warm breath every night
Cause it feels your tears roll down your face every night
Cause it feels your heart beating every night
And I don't...

But I am yet to come
We will finally live together forever
One more year
And we'll be happy at last...

As happy as the sun in the morning
As happy as the rain in the evening
As happy as the kid that plays with their friends
As happy as you make me every second that I am with you...
Forever.

thy
heart
cast
a
stowaway
upon
the
ship of love
while
It
lean
towards
the
dark wine sea

You do not get to hurt my feelings and call it "art"
I will not gift you in that way
You own all the credit but I refuse to give you fame
This is not a poem
If it were it'd be titled with your name
Details about how the clouds couldn't compete with me but instead,
I am feeling that feeling with no name
And that's why
This is not a poem
As I'm lying on this bed
I will sign it and hide it within my drawer labeled 12 AMs
Because you are not an artist
They create beauty from their own pain
But you have used mine
You will never know what it said
I still love you
But I must remind you,

that this is not a poem.

How can you write what you feel,
What you know,
When you don’t?
How can I keep the words from running dry
When I’m wasting time trying to squeeze them
From the inkwell of my mind?

I am not an artist,
I am a student.

And yet everything I’ve learned
Seems to fail me.
Rhymes, meter, imagery:
Why do I know these things
If I can’t use them myself?

I am not an artist,
I am an observer.

This problem is not rare
And yet as I write about not writing
I write.
My lack of a story
Is a story itself.
Thinking is the enemy
And in this head of mine
My foe flies at me relentlessly.
Sometimes a mind overflowing with thoughts
Can hurt more than an imagination run dry.
Yet the pain only fuels me.

I am not an artist,
But I could be.

She'd written a verse
   on wandering love;
      of hearts that yearned to stray--
         it spoke of home, and now I yearn
            for all that she has
               to say.

i  _ don't _ know
whatthisis
i'm calling it,
don't ^know ^if ^it's ^all ^too ^much
or if you _ don't _ know
how. to. love.
enough/ is/
enough
how you come
& go
while i just
stay
,...
 #put