There's more that meets the eyes
And this will never change
It's too complicated to explain why
The answer will never be the same
Just remember to hold us when we cry
And beware those moments we act insane
Sometimes a firm, warm place to land
Is the only thing to soothe our weary brain
Were difficult at best, impossible at worst
But true love is always on our mind first
Some women want the finer things in life
Some just want children and to be a good wife
Others need to be held and reassured constantly
Some just want to trust and receive honesty
No matter the woman, you'll never understand us all
But keep in mind... There's no greater feeling than the fall

The heart of a writer is a battle ground,
they break for the sake of breaking
because even despair has its calms.
The hands of a writer are tar black,
patched up with band aids and
agonizing pain. The eyes of a writer
is a clear ocean view, mixed with
madness and sadness and a soul
somewhere there too. The mind of a
writer is a garden of flowers,
embracing pretty words and seeking
simple wonders. The soles of a writer
are on their own, they take them to
places they have  never been before,
then trip and fall, creating their next
                                                story line.
-Ka.Me.// @herbrokenpoetri on IG

Hands right,
my temperature is about to disease,
how did we get here?

That exactly isn't what I think...

If I take your shirt out I know what to do when I do,
all I need is a slow move.

If I kiss your neck, my ear it's best place to breath.

Babe, all I do comes deep in.
Babe, all I want to feel it's you in.

But babe, If I look at you, you stare away.

Sunday sun-dazed steamy sweet haze
of our warm breath coats the icy
window panes the sky shines bluer
than our fingers in the snow so
sleep on dreamer while we wait for
summer days to breathe again

People try to find out what's wrong with you
but they can't see through your eyes.
Your demons know how to go unnoticed,
they know so well how to hide.

There was a place where a light wind blew
And swished away the leaves,
Pushing past the great, exposing the new,
Meandering through the trees.
A place where many trod but few could see.
Where all had been and come to pass
But more than often leave.
Considered by none, walked on by many,
This place was no ones first time,
A venue so guilty of mass interception,
Now a place that is momentarily mine.
Fingers sweetly stained, ripe for a licking,
Bushes bow to greet, the artist who is picking.
Carefully placed signs to protect outsider intrusions,
No handprints or footprints in sight.
All access not granted, made more appealing
By the unmasked blanket of night.
Bowed branches hung slightly,
Not tampered, cut or blown.
This dwelling reserved for nobodies pleasure,
Leaving the lost be unknown.

What a fool Love makes of us...


and oh, how we let it.