i know you know that i write too many love poems
but i know that already, so please tell me something new
tell me what you think of No Ordinary Muse or August Blue
i tend to forget about every heartbreak that i’ve ever had
the moment my fingers pick up a pen and write the pain away
lately all these love poems have begun to sound the same
i’m starting to think that my right wrist is getting quite rusty
i don’t know much about the world around me these days
hearts get broken like mirrors, records and promises do
i want to love until my time is up like God left the clock on the ceiling
i write too many love poems lately
because love is something that i can actually understand

Sometimes I'll read great literature and think:
that perhaps, poetry is a theatrical
(but necessary) byproduct
of our excess emotion—
created by broken people
who simply feel too much,
in too little of a space.
From the largest and grandest of stanzas
to the petite one-liners,
we pour our feelings into words
and our words into emotion,
and give them the context
to take on a brand new meaning.
We  adorn our anguish in sweet, silken lines,
our passion in soft, breathy rhymes;
our anger shows in scribbles
and taut similes,
our joy in the personification
of the very things we wish
could come alive.
From all corners of all nations we grow
knowing, quite profoundly,
that our feelings are meant to mean something:
Poetry is not tissue in our lives
to be used and tossed away;
rather, poems mark the seasons of ourselves
that are to be remembered and enjoyed.
Written on notepads and parchment,
from wide open spaces to
that dingy apartment,
our words lie in wait for us
so that at our lowest point,
our words may help remind us
to be *human