she was a poet,
and he was her pen.
in him,
she always found words to write,
songs to sing,
thoughts to think.

he'd smile,
and kiss her softly,
and say,
"write me a poem."

and she would.
she'd put poe,
and whitman,
and shakespeare to shame,
and she'd write a poem that made his eyes water.

she'd compare him
to a rose with no thorns,
a book with no end,
a world with no poverty --
the things we all wish for,
but can never attain.

//

he asked her one day,
"what am i?"
and so she picked up her pen,
and began the usual:
you are the shining sun after a hurricane,
with rays that open the eyes of the blind.
but he stopped her after those two lines,
and said that this time,
he didn't want any metaphors,
or similes,
or analogies.
he wanted the truth.

and so on that night,
as he slept,
the poet picked up her pen,
and she wrote.

she wrote,
then thought better of it,
then started over again,
and this cycle continued well into the early hours of the morning,
until suddenly,
she wrote, frantic,
if i can't love you for what you really are,
have i ever really loved you at all?

this, too,
she thought better of,
condemning it to the trash.

the next morning the poet was gone,
her final work a mere two words:

i'm sorry.

(a.m.)

She is the fire that fuels adventure
The light that guides our journey
We found each other in sound
And bonded in music.
She says we are more than friends
We are a team.
A force to be reckoned with
In an industry that allows no survivors.
The winners that come out on top
Are broken.
But we will be the saviors
Of music and passion.
We will prove that music can still
Be an art and not a contest
Or a corporation.
Too many artists are told no
Because of how they look
Not how they sound.
Labels are telling women to cover up
Giving girls perfect skinny role models
And not showing them that
Inner beauty is just as important.
The arts need to be about art again.
We will make it so.
It just takes one person
To make all the difference.