The way your eyes crinkle when you smile
Tells me your real
The way your easily offended
Tells me you feel
The way your fingers trace over my hip
Tells me need
The way you fall in love so easily
Tells me you bleed
The way you brush off punches
Tells me you heal
The way you help me get dressed
Reminds me it's real

It's nearly been a week since we last spoke
I've been counting the days
I hope I can keep counting
If you know what I mean

You smile when you pass me
But don't dare say hello
Don't you dare say hello

Does an optimist or a pessimist write the better poem?

Does an optimist with his rhyme and meter

Writing songs of love, nature, and spring?

Or are a pessimist’s dirges

Of bitter betrayal and loss more inspiring?



Both pessimists and optimists sing

Soft, yet loudly their own song.

So who writes the better poem?

What is the better song?

One of the marriage bed,

Or one of love gone wrong?



All sympathize with sadness;

All feel the pangs of joy.

Songs of rotten apples,

Or of bouncing baby boys?

So what expression does the better poet employ?



Truth is they touch us daily.

All just parts of life.

Tears and laughter not unique to ******* or wife.

Yes maybe optimists and pessimists are not so far apart,

For both pessimists and optimists capture the human heart.

"it's nothing personal"
I don't wish to agree with that statement
but if you say it then it must be true.
it's nothing personal when you sing out my name.
it's nothing personal when I tell you I love you
and all you do is shake your head and laugh in response.
jesus, that's it. that's all the answer I'm ever getting from you.
I have prayed to all the gods in the books that one day you would say "I love you too"
but I become more of an atheist day by day.
some times you're beautiful and I want to paint a million pictures
and carve a thousand rocks
just to recall the way you carried yourself that particular day.
but other days it's like there are bees buzzing around my head
and no matter how far or fast I run
they just won't go home.
I will breathe till my lungs run out
just to see another one of your "okay" days.
my heart beats to the strength of your inner and outer beauty.
the more gorgeous you become, the weaker my poor lost soul gets.
your voice is the most intricate sound I've ever heard and it feeds my brain
and provides me with a reason to stay conscious.
you speak of love and lost heroes
of politics and current events
of your own life
and every other ***** secret you can get your hands on.
you're smarter than anyone I've ever known
but it doesn't show.
because sometimes you hate yourself too.
the way I see it, we've got a delicate balance going on.
this "relationship" is in a glass box.
a really thin glass box, a terribly built box, without proper sealants and structure.
looking at this small box now
I see that it's so full of you.
I see your blue eyes reflecting off the walls and hairs caught on sharp edges.
it's beautiful and I love you.
but I see there's hardly anything left of me.
I'm compact in my body and my soul is not free range like yours.
I don't like it much.
so nothing personal, I guess
but you know how I hate being chained down.