I think my pen
is better suited
to long strokes
to graceful arcs
to ink that bleeds across the page
than the shorter marks I make
when I am short with you

The cloud inspired me,
So I left.
I left without even telling you
And maybe I upset you
Or maybe not.
The thing is that once you leave
You never go back.
You walk, you run or fly
Towards him, towards her, towards them,
Towards us.
But wait.
We do not exist anymore.
We do not exist ever since I gave you a part of me
And left
Because the clouds inspired me.
But I took a part of you too.
A small souvenir.
A string of hair,
A drop of spit
Or a bruise.
Don't worry,  it doesn't hurt
And I know you have them too.
I saw them,
I felt them,
I caressed them
And I loved them.

You asked me if I loved you
I asked myself what it meant
This is what I came up with

The truth is
I never really knew what love was
Until I met you

All the little things
Small jokes to make me laugh
A hug to make me smile
Are intensified

The darkness in my brain
The shadows that cloud my memories
Are lifted when you talk to me

You know all the little things
My favorite color my favorite animal
Even know who Sam and Spencer are

You know my past
Are part of my present
Lead me into
A better future

You're the one
I don't want to share
Who I could spend hours
Sitting with just doing nothing

You've seen the real me
Haven't run away
You know who I am
Yet still decided to stay

This is what
Being in love
Really means to me

Unsure of what will come.
Trying to live for today, but feeling so glum.
New glasses, new sight, maybe a new perspective on life.
Feeling scattered and unorganized; therefore need to prioritize!!
Get making those lists girl..
Do not deny your procrastination side, celebrate it, note it, move forward.

This poem will not adhere to your rules- so I won't make it rhyme
                         there will be no cadence
Or StRuCtuRe either                                 yoUr   poeam might be pretty
                                                    yOur poEm might be wise
         bUt no one thinks that this is a poem
it is a poem in disguise.

You keep telling me that I'm not the only one.
But you don't cry yourself to sleep.
Or cry because you get frustrated with yourself.
You don't care about what people think.
Or care as much as I do for others.
I am the only one.
I'm the only me there is.

the wind picked pace
she could feel the sound
of the music, very
distant now
he was telling her
about his sister
fingers sliding
through her hair
like water
saying, "You remind me,"
"You remind me."

it was too early
for spring
bare branches
stir with a sudden
turn of crooked fingers
as a car passes,
shedding light
on broken glass

last night she dreamed
of lions