Yup,
when left in the sun
they become warm like my lovers hands
and the light they reflect is as bright as his eyes.
Their vibrant color speaks to the sound of his voice
when he draws near and whispers in my ear.
The taste of his lips is just as sweet and soft as the flesh of the fruit.
but never will you hear them sing like he does.
At the turn of a week
They wither and shrink
when darkness consumes their complexion.
and that's when the fuzz starts to grow.
they rot and they stink
like a lost loves memory.
and as they fester
so does your regret from
never consuming them while they were younger
and untouched by the corruption of time.
and that is what sets them apart from him.
through time he gets wiser and the fruit of maturity blossoms
with the grace of his actions.

They pull us closer or they tear us apart
they tie one's hart
to another.
even still, these forces that pull us together  
might not bind us forever.
you can't feel these strings work
you can't see them either
but like light they connect us together.

When the light of dawn envelops us,
I feel his fingers connect to my being
as he pulls my hart towards himself in a tight embrace.
My fear melts away while warmth radiates from his eyes like the light that brushes past his cheek; bright and vibrant yet some how knowing.
I am alone no longer when he is with me.

Hello poetry,
I am a new soul looking for the purest form of expression
and I do not care much for physical aggression.
move my static spirit so that I can feel emotions more intense than the sun. Renew in me the springs of creativity, so that words can bring to life the bountiful thoughts inside my mind.

Hold my hand as I carry you across the inky darkness,
to feel creation in its most complete form.
Taste time as it slips past your lips into the unknown
as stars blur into galaxies.
Galaxies which dance endlessly in constant collision.
The doors to perception open as you become infinite in this moment.
Then you will realize that what we are is Love.

The violin drips its song like mellow dew
as sweet rays of notes touch my ears
in the most flattering way,
making love to my soul.

This is
a
poem.

The curious cat
only dies after being
curious nine times.

A friend of mine was taken by a storm
all because he wanted its beauty.
The storm denied him of the right
and struck him down as he reached for the light.
Every window ever opened
every mind ever spoken
what is beauty but a fleeting opinion left for broken.
A picture is worth a thousand words but is it worth a life?

I grasped each word firmly and wrung each spindly neck.
Littered and defiled laid every word, each soul smashed into oblivion.
Had I the right to ****** my poetry?
Had I the right to destroy an existence that I "created"?
Yes.
Did I regret it?
Yes.