Sweet, be not proud of those two eyes
Which starlike sparkle in their skies;
Nor be you proud that you can see
All hearts your captives, yours yet free;
Be you not proud of that rich hair
Which wantons with the love-sick air;
Whenas that ruby which you wear,
Sunk from the tip of your soft ear,
Will last to be a precious stone
When all your world of beauty’s gone.

A blue black cloud, all over me is written JOY
in the script of vapor, dense, moist and meaningful,
I am light, like a feather, the breeze is in love with me for that,
I love his gentle persuasion to waft, move about, explore..
and then--ravaged by wind my love changes direction.

I love freedom more than anything, but forgot limits, hover
now, I am no more attached to the green hills, they are jealous,
far above them am I, untouched by their vainglorious pride,
I am not hard-hearted, parched fields send shivers of lightning
break me in to thousand  smaller pieces, scatter around.

My love for this earth is kindled by the sights unfurling below
all the egrets, cormorants, storks and herons of great magnificence,
those kind hearted friends that fly with me often are in pain
like the farmers, there isn't enough water for anything.

A cloud is a thought, inspired by the love for mother earth
by the ocean I am gifted to the breeze, to tour around,
on many lands fell my shade, found life in all varieties,
now is the time to be kind at heart, melt, fall in torrents.

I dated a girl who emotionally abused me for months and when I finally split things off I cried everyday for a couple months.

I split things off with a girl who I loved with all my heart, I continue to believe I would cross oceans for her, yet I have not cried.

I'm an oxymoron, a lesson in irony.
I'm an upbeat jazz number, played in a minor chord.
I feel the world for those around me,
and only bitter disdain for myself.

I'm attractive, I've got a strong jaw line,
and a nose most guys would **** for.
I dress better than the guys I run with,
and my hair does exactly what I want it to.

I read French existentialist authors
and consider myself well versed in modern jazz.
I've got a steady job, and I've never been late once.

When I think about who I am,
and the jealousy I feel towards the happiness I am not providing you,
I get sick to my stomach.

All I've ever wanted is for you to be happy and you appear to be so and I'm upset because I'm a jealous ***** of a man who has the emotional capacity of a child longing for his mother's teet.


I don't know why I feel the way I do but I'm out of *** and I have to deal with how I'm feeling and that will be a first.

You are crushed up candy hearts. You are a song that gets stuck in my head for weeks on end. You are skin on skin. You are heat. You are electric. You are my journal, the one I lost and still cry over. You are forgotten movies and discarded shirts. You are meeting me half way. You are meeting me at the bridge. You are desire. You are coming home after the longest day. You are what it feels like to have your bones settle in. You are sweaty palms and wet lips and sparkling eyes. You are comfort. Have you noticed that all of my poems start with "you" these days? There are two hearts left on your bedroom floor and while one may be mine, they both belong to you.

So you meet this boy, right? And you fall in love and it's beautiful and poetic and he's "the one". But then he leaves you and it's Christmas time and you're hiding in your aunt's bathroom as he screams at you "I don't love you anymore! I don't ******* love you anymore!" and you think that the windows are going to break even harder than your heart because his voice is so loud and there isn't anything beautiful or poetic about this. You tried for many months to convince yourself that he loved you but somebody that loves you wouldn't set you on fire and laugh when you begged for water. I guess what I'm trying to say is that I should have left the night you threw the glass at the wall and I should have never came back.