They say love makes us do some crazy things
I just wish our lives intertwined
That'd be amazing
I'm like a dog with no bone or a cat without nip
A joke with no punch line or a wet floor that can't slip

I can't help it I'm crazy about you
You saved my life so you know I'd never doubt you
But I physically pain when you're away
I ache And hurt, and masquerade like I'm okay
And let's not even talk about hormonal situations
I said you're my superwoman, but even I need saving
I get it, you have responsibilities and stuff to maintain
But me without you is simply insane
I can't stand to think of someone else holding your hand it eats me up inside and today I woke up with tears in my eyes...
disguised as laughter and jokes

I'm like a nicotine head trying to cover up that he smokes
Or Tommy Chong taking Vicadin when we all know he tokes
Or a crack addict with no pipe
a straw with no berry
You're the Apple of my eyes but they close day by day... And it's scary

As you gazed across the room,
My eyes caught your lingering stare,
To a woman who was not me,
Both not seeing, unaware.

Like a giddy school boy, I watched,
As she asked about your day,
Standing in disbelief,
Sensing this was wrong in every way.

My stomach hit the floor that day,
Followed closely by my heart,
Sadly not realizing,
This was only just the start.

Never enough, too much,
Imperfect in every way,
Wanting to run, scream, hide,
Like a coward, I choose only to stay.

Birthdays uncelebrated,
No tinsel on the tree,
This union isn't working,
The fault is always me.

Lousy cook, deplorable housekeeper,
No tiger in bed,
Tears stream down my face,
From words uttered & ones left unsaid.

Listen up 'gentle' men,
This shouldn't come as a surprise,
The true beauty of a woman,
Does not in fact lie between her thighs.

Love her laugh, her heart,
her smile,
Value these things,
& she may just stay awhile.

Don't win her over with baubles & bling,
court her with fancy dinners,
These mean nothing.

Write her a poem,
Leave her a letter,
These are the honey, gold, & nectar.

Moments shared, hands held,
A warm hug, a gentle touch,
These are the things of true value,
These are the things we all want so much.

Forgive me if my honesty
Isn't quite on trend,
But truth be told, what this world need more of,
Isn't lovers,
But ride or die friends.

After the faint grazing of my arm by your unaware fingers,
The candle was lit and it ignited its cage.
Famished, the flames unfettered the bounds
Consumed every fiber of self-doubt
My heart fell into the smoldering ash
Gazed above at the fiery mass
And sighed.

Find a Poet Not a poser, not a "it's just a hobby" poet. Find one who mumbles lines as they scramble for a pen at breakfast; who shakes their head randomly when their thoughts aren't rhyming properly;  who has notebooks stashed around the house that you must never touch.
2. Listen Savor the spoken words, for those are harder to express. Keep in mind that they can't be edited and re-written, and be forgiving when a mistake is made.
3. Read The body speaks as loudly as words on a page do. When their eyes are closed or focused on the ceiling and the fingers are tapping out syllables, recognize the unique process. Respect the need for quiet, because if you look closely, you can read the poem on their face before they write it on the page.
4. Write Write your story together. Grab hold of the pen and hang on as you move across the page of life. Sometimes you will dance across, others you will be dragged. You may have to cross out a word, or a line, or a page, but don't give up. Discouragement is a poet's biggest enemy, inarticulateness their biggest fear. So end each day with a semi-colon, because the story will never end the way you think it will, and there must be room for more. There is always room for more, more words, more laughter, more tears, more love,
When you love a poet.

How has it come to this?
A book once vibrant in cover and fluent in language
Now tattered and dropped into a recycle bin.
I can hear them now,
The many in the landfills and recycle plants
“Judge me not by my remains but by my essence.”
But we discard based on looks and physical holes in plots.
We ignore the beauty of language and character development
For pristine copies of the new
When sometimes
The old would have worked just as well.
A book once vibrant in cover and fluent in being
Now tattered and forgotten.
How has it come to this?

You don't find scars on my skin
So you think I'm just fine
You don't see in my eyes that I cried all night
But some of us don't wear our scars like clothing
Some show scars in poetry written in the dark
Where they feel the rawest emotion
And I'm one of them
I bleed my emotion into poetry
And hope you can make sense of it more than I can
So someone can you tell me
How am I feeling?