He fell in love,
With the idea of her.
But he realized too late
that ideas aren't people
and they never do
what you expect.
People aren't things to dream about.
People are imperfect beings
And they don't fit into
Your misunderstood notions.
Foolish ideas, foolish emotions,
Now he's her fool,
Juggling his own life
For her entertainment.

You are the city I’ve been waiting
my whole life to live in.

I’m not looking for
some hotel room to visit.

If your heart is an apartment,
I’m ready to make a down payment.

Please let me stay until I am evicted.

No one ever wants to read a poem other than one about love.
They’re only interested in thoughts from another that might just be about them.
I mean it’s pleasant if you happen to read a poem that relates to you, but don’t just click copy, save, or reblog.
Someone put their heart in to that poem; they shed tears and carved crevasses into their undoubting mind that everything is worth it.
They found their worth.
Some through words of love and transgression, and others through words of doubt, vexation, and sorrow.
They’ve been able to overcome themselves, and now it’s your turn to take the wheel.
Understand the words you want to say about the grass dancing in the wind, find the comparisons between yourself and the sun, and reach for the top of the clouds with the courage
of a self-spoken soul.
Not everything has to be about love, people just make it out to be.

(j.a.r.)