roses are red
violets are blue
if you were a colour
you'd be my favourite hue.

the love you have to give
may it sprout.
and blossom
wild and free.

the words you have to share
may it spread
with kindness
to touch and heal.

may your presence
be the gift
that remains even
long after you leave.

"do you suppose there is a moonflower
who faces the moon
just like the sunflower does to the sun?"

"you are the moon"
he said looking at me
"and I am your moonflower."

Somewhere
hidden
in her
soul,

beneath her
veiled words
and the glances she stole,
was a story left to unfold.
A desire to be noticed,
A desire to be admired.
As if her presence
was dripping in
molten gold.

You should write poetry
he told me.
And now when I bleed
I bleed only in poetry
Now when I cry
I cry internally
My pen,
The external vein,
The ink,
The endless dripping
dark that is in me,
Now all of my problems
Smoothens out
like the pages in my book
smoothens out
like the cold sleek demeanor I put on
no more tears to shed
Everything is beautiful
In poetry

love's like oxygen,
fatal when pure.