loving him is poetry
and kissing him is art.

i'm used to being the creator
but being created from the affection
in his hands
and sculpted from intimacy
is a feeling like no other--
he doesn't just look, he sees me
every stray brush stroke
every drawn line
every brilliant color,
down to my skeleton,
he strips me of pretense and glows
with acceptance.

i am a bared soul,
battered and bruised,
shaken and scarred,
but even so--

i'm something beautiful in a gaze
like that.

I’ve always heard the hungry howl of paper waiting to be fed;
Waiting for perfect, sublime words to fill it up.
The paper has been calling my name since I was young;
Tempting, tantalizing, taunting me to write.
I started with silly stories about princesses and super-heroes
Saving the day and leaving their mark on the world.
Like a seed I grew, expanding my horizons.
All the time, I avoided poetry like the plague.
Poetry was dangerous; daunting.
It was never my cup of tea; never appealing.
My first taste of poetry was Dr. Suess.  
I always thought he was crazy.
My second bite of poetry was Shel Silverstein.  
He made me laugh, but it got annoying quick.
They say the third time’s a charm,
And for me, it was.
Robert Frost intrigued me with ‘The Road Not Taken’.
I started to see the true beauty of words.
I realized that poetry was words in their most admirable form.
I began to feel something stirring inside of me
Like a monster wanting out of its cage.
I felt the seed of poetry planting itself inside me,
And I watered it everyday.
It’s still growing, still blooming;
Being nurtured by the metaphors of Emily Dickinson  
And the breathtaking words of Shakespeare;
Two people made immortal because of their words.
I hope to be like them one day;
To be immobilized in print;
Leaving my mark in society
Like the super-heroes in the stories I wrote when I was young.

Is it worth it, you and me?

What would have happened
If the stars didn't align
On that fateful day?

I imagine he and I
Would still be together.
Maybe we would be closer to marriage.

She might still be my best friend,
Always planning the next adventure,
Sticking around through it all.

Would I have tried to **** myself again?
He always knew what to say,
And her opinion would have rang in my ears.

Perhaps my mother and I
Would still be close.
Maybe I wouldn't have left the house.

I would have never met her.
These feelings, this confusion,
Would not exist.

But think about this:

What if he and I still didn't work out?
Perhaps I would have met someone new,
Or perhaps we just fell out of love.

What if she and I
Still didn't make it until the end?
The adventure stopped?

Perhaps I still tried to **** myself,
And it actually worked?
You were the one who got me help.

What if my mother and I
Still faded away,
And I still left home?

I would be completely alone then;
Maybe even six feet under.
Nobody would be my comfort.

Is it worth it, you and I?

We will not know until the very end.

rage--
an ember planted
deep within
my firey, burning heart