She's the love of my life.
From the top of her head,
to the bottoms of her feet.

She's the love of my life,
but not in the way you would think.

She's the love of my life.
She's the light of my day,
and the dark of my night.

She's the love of my life.
She's the water of the tide
and the stars in the sky.

She's the love of my life.
That won't ever change.
I love her with all of my head,
and she knows that.

I circle °§° when I'm attending to high priority problem solving...I get that "call", comes at any hour all the time.  
I am a creative, straightforward problem solver, of that I serve a Use.
I don't sugar coat or concern myself with asinine diplomacy when what needs to be done takes precedence over graceful depositary.
  
I'm the bullseye solution spokeswoman, I see past the distractive story, connect the dots, then go in for the **** of the comfort zone, I do not speak enchanting hokee, to smooth the shock of my delivery.
  
I Call it Out for What it is, then lock my eye on each target who owes explanation to my Question, I go down the board until I'm satisfied, Cold Silence lets them shiver just enough to feel the Cold Choices they sold, then I sit and smile with ease, and Offer plausible suggestions to **** the problem, fast, and with no remorse for their poor professional Choice.

We reconvene within the hour.
I listen to their fumbled excuses, but they always impress with a touching integrity, owning their choices made for reasons I understand, but will not stand...
"Gotta keep the Machine running, even when it's broken."
  
I receive official plan of action which I must always find compromise...but immediate action is immplemented, when I get my way, The take down hits'em where it hurts, the sleezy ****...
the **** is no small fish, the **** are the bleep bleep bleep with sanctioning power, so deft proceedings must start the the transition within reasonable forecast and market stability, but last 8 months showing progressive movement towards bleep bleep speaks louder, never trust the newscasters story, bleep bleep, it's looking like we will pull through, but turbulence is never far away.
  
Buckle up, stay cool, this baby  is clear for landing and a safe arrival.

Still I will °§° circle, seems spinnings my thing.

Break to planned position...

I'm a ******
I don't do drugs or drink
my only flaw is how much I think
I don't believe in God but I believe in me
And I don't know where I belong on my family tree

I don't propose that **** is based on a girl's clothes
I suppose I'm dumb or brilliant but who really knows
You could say that I'm narcissistic or have low self-esteem
with a girlfriend with a pocketless pocket and a head full of dreams

Whoa that didn't flow, that last line
Imperfect effort seems to be an attribute of mine
Look at this rhyme scheme, it's so diverse
I guess I can get away with this; I couldn't get any worse
One favorite, three favorite, fifty-four
Give me validation, I could always use some more
Hello, Hellopoetry! You've been so forgiving
of my beautiful poetry that reflects an ugly way of living
Tell me, tell me: Should I write more?
What if my sadness is gone, and my melancholy no more?
Will you still love me if I write about crinkle-cut fries?

"****. No more suicide poems, does this kid still try?"

Is there still a Josh Haines if he no longer cries?
Is there still a Josh Haines if he doesn't wanna die?
Is there still a Josh Haines if he starts to fall?
Is there still a Josh Haines if he gets it all?
Is there still a Josh Haines after every kiss?
Is there still a Josh Haines after he writes all of this?

Eh. Maybe, baby. Maybe.

Some guys will leave lip prints on your body that will fade away, but will leave cuts in your heart that will last forever.

Throw caution to the wind
Come mess up my bed.

I am not a writer. I cannot
write every night late into the deep
like young writers should
I do not have the perseverance to craft a character
they'll care about or romanticize
my characters are blind, foolish, ridiculous
unlovable, like the self-portrait
of a blond man kissed by the purple night
I am not strong enough to **** the dragons in my stories
I'll write you into the pages
but it will never be anything more than an incomplete explanation,
what painting could contain the sun?
I cannot contain the word that
you say with every moment and breath.
I cannot contain the word and
so the word will contain me. The ink will pulse
into my skin, kissing my soul with blessed eternity
I am not worthy, I am never worthy of the darkness of the word
impressed upon my heart of white, a tattoo
of something claimed by those greater, a crown of false gold,
those who wore it before were forced to give it up
by the one event they were trying to cheat
I say I had wings, and maybe I did, but they're gone now;
I am not a writer, the word has been falsely taken,
I am an usurper, not a writer,
I am terrified because I have
this river of flowing black etching and stamping,
forming and gliding, untangling into something greater than myself,
something I cannot earn or hear-
I am not a writer. Please don't let me be a writer.
I am not worthy.