She stands elicited with fear
She holds a heart in her hands
So fragile, so loving
It's glorious

It's the most delicate thing she will ever hold.
He trusted her with it.
He handed it to her and said
/keep it safe/

So she did
She held her own heart in her left hand

And with her right
She took his heart and put it where hers used to be

He had his hands out for hers

But she was still holding onto it.
Holding on like you would
In the middle of a hurricane.
Holding on like death was at your door
And you were trying to sneak out the back
Holding on because
She was frightened

But she looked in those eyes
A sky full of blue
Full of hope and something she didn't know
And she held out her heart

But she was still frightened, still scared.
Afraid, afraid he'd throw it...

But,
He didn't.
He took it as careful as possible and put it where his used to be.

They had one another's hearts.
And for once,
Neither one of them were shattered.

I know the words I'm searching for are there,
lying beneath the surface of my conscience grasp,
and I know if I try hard enough I can reach them,
pull them from their depths
and use them to create something meaningful
but what if they're not meaningful?
What if I lost it, the talent to string
many times used words together
to make something new altogether?
I could cry with the lack of effort
I put into my poetry now-a-days,
but I'm learning to fear so many things I never use to,
and its hampering my work on a large degree.
How can I claim this is what I do,
who I AM,
when I don't cant feel confident
in my skills as a writer anymore?
Who am I if not a writer?
I'm nothing extraordinary; writing made me feel free
and hopeful and extraordinary,
but I'm not writing anymore,
at the least nothing that makes me feel all those things.

I looked up at the night sky
Every single star exploded at once
A storm of dust surrounded me.
I couldn't move,
I couldn't scream,
All I could do was stand there in silence staring,
Wondering if it would ever end.

I have music in my head
A beat of a particular sound
Is it my blood rushing through my veins
Strumming my chords or have I found
some other percussion in me instead.
Whether I trail downstream to the pool
or to the purple prickly moors
My music goes with me
Beside me and behind closed doors.
It sings to me heart, a rhythm downloading
my thoughts to the breeze.  Wafting to the wind
blasting in the lanes as I go off roading
in my little jeep with rickety floors.
Bumping and grinding it does
behind closed doors.

We own a pond;
mottled bluebottle,
flecked in freckles
when the sunlight
skims the surface
between the moss.

I dip a finger inside
and stir. A nebula
swills, swirling like
a whisk of spilt oil
from a water spot
sometimes found
underneath a car.

My fist plunges in,
embalming a gulp;
moss bandages
around the orb that,
withdrawing in drips,
I see a new world
set alight upon it.

Love* is seeing imperfect things perfectly
Their flaws, which catches you,
Their smile, which means nothing to others but means a lot to you,
"Love is blind.", Indeed it is,
Turn-off's and on's isn't a big thing when you're in love,
Just the fact seeing them makes you happy,
makes you smile instantly
foul smells, unpleasant things or anything doesn't matter if you
really love them
I doubt people who says that they already have their true love
Where's the love there?
Love, because he/she looks good? 
Because he/she is rich?
Loving someone despite their flaws and issues is what we called true love
Added by trust, respect and faith are the perfect ingredients to achieve true love,
Just by accepting them in any imperfections that they have will mean a lot.

What if we cannot see?

The bluest of skies;

the clearest of seas.

The beauty around us

no-one to appreciate its majesty.

What if we cannot taste?

The lips of the one we love

The fresh air, blowing freely.

Or the food and drink provided by the earth

to keep us from the finality of death.

What if we cannot feel?

The one one we hold most dear;

who holds our heart with theirs.

Or to feel the warmth of a fire,

pleasant on our uncovered skin.

What if we cannot smell?

The scent of a flower in full bloom;

It’s aroma intoxicating and sweet.

Or the smells of our home we miss

whenever we are not there.

What if we cannot hear?

The sound of cleansing rain on the window

or the music that speaks to our every being.

Or the sound of a newborn baby

crying for it’s mother.

What if the meaning of life is our senses?

To See.

To Taste.

To Feel.

To Hear.

To Smell.

Would life be worth living,

if we cannot experience it fully?

The intricacies of life all around;

no-one could appreciate them,

how truly perfect they are.

What if we were never born with them?

It’s hard to miss something

you never had to begin with.

So for those who haven’t experienced these sensations.

Life is still worth living.

What if this life is false?

Reality isn’t what it seems?

What if this is all just a dream

and we don’t know any differently?

What if we were never born at all?