if people knew how much they meant to someone, would they have stayed?

I can’t write this poem
I can’t write this poem because the last time I opened up to someone artistically they told me it was pretty dark and I should keep it to myself.

I can’t write this poem
I can’t write this poem because I was raised in a culture that was anti love and pro meaningless ***. I saw endless commercials about movies that glamorize a lifestyle in which your body is fulfilled but your heart is ignored and at that impressionable age I learned my heart came second but my allure came first and the less I cared that happier I would be and I carried that belief around with me the way I used to carry around a Bible as a child.

I can’t write this poem
I can’t write this poem because of the time that I opened my father’s phone to reveal a family secret I would hold to this day against my own moral instincts unraveling miles of insecurities wondering if I’m not a good enough daughter or if he stopped loving my mother or if true love was never real and although I had been taught marriage was my purpose, it was what I believed would make me happy, maybe rings aren’t enough to stay in love and maybe people’s feelings change and maybe no one actually has a “one true love” and that this purpose I had been taught was really an endless wild goose chase that only lead to broken families and lost souls.

I can’t write this poem
I can’t write this poem because sometimes I still wonder why I fell into an abyss of toxicity at such a young age. And when I say wonder I don’t mean a trivial ponder, I mean I contemplate every possible reason why the person who I once believed held the universe in her eyes would lie to my face, why she never kissed me in public and our love was always a secret, why she valued girls with blue hair but my blonde hair was not good enough, why I had to hide bruises from my family when I was still in high school or more importantly, why at the time, I thought I deserved them. These thoughts, this lingering paranoia that I am undeserving of healthy love, they muddy my interpretations of real life and distort reality and effect my relationships. My doctor would call these intrusive thoughts, my best friend would tell me they’re symptoms of PTSD, but I have come to realize that I’ve been burned and I am damaged and I hope to god I can recover.

But you,
Oh god, you
You can write this poem. You can be my safety net while I’m free falling in love. You can be the one to listen to my mental tilt-a-whirls, you can be the one that introduces my body and my heart, you can be the one that calms the storms in my mind when I’m questioning the love I’m deserving of. You are the one who makes sure I fall asleep in my bed after drunk nights, you are the one that still sees my value after acknowledging my flaws.
You can write this poem.

Be my muse tonight, my love.  
Inspire me in my dreams.
In poetry, I'll think of you
where starlight always gleams.

As Morning Glories catch the sun,
I'll capture you in rhyme.
My heart will sing your praises
while you make my spirit climb.

The raindrops are a mockery
that try to match my tears,
which fall like diamonds on my cheeks
each time our parting nears.

Your eyes like pools of amber
often take my breath away.
Your lips demand attention
and my ardor doth obey.

Be my muse tonight, my love.  
Ensnare me with a kiss.
Enslaved my heart shall ever be
a prisoner of your bliss.

"where night is....sinking like
a sorrowful cloud or a bird of stone"

where the roses
sigh
and the honey
of your lips
melts me like
a furnace,

i burn
dreaming of roses
and skies fallen
in me like
ink pools,

i love the
angles of your
face,
the flow
of your hair,

melancholy
moods like
clouds
painted on
canvas,

love, my
bones dying
song, my
ribs like an
elephants
grave yard,
pressed to yours
drowned out
by emotions
like desolate clouds,

if i kiss you again
i'll fall down
liquid as the land
sky portrait
of blue,
against the sculptured
wall,
you know you
want me more,

as i glide, the
free girl,
how free you
make me feel
as i sink
in
the night.

the sound of Waltz Nocturne
   in A Minor,  does Chopin's rhythm a romantic duet's dance

played time and again by todays masters
re discovering the innocent genius of a child

the Waltz,
a composition to be heard in every generation to come
to bring romance and tears
to bring joy and humor

to bring a song for dance and the music of a memory

A musicians legacy might be just for you.

It was a sturdy ship that I
went down in, and it felt like
rebirth when I drowned and
emerged from the tumbling
surf to wring out my hair and
tie a knot in my skirt. (I learned
to breathe by nearly drowning.)