Sometimes I like to wonder,

does my pen move
the same way as yours?

Does it
             dance?
Does it
             sing?

                        Does it
impel a grateful piece
of paper to smile,
and laugh out
tiny bubbles of its dream
to be admired in the Louvre?

Or does the paper bleed
angry droplets of deep-coloured
ink-blood from its ink-heart
from its ink-soul; or does it cry
little black tears
from its dark fountains of literature?

Does the paper feel
all of these things
as you sketch your last
line
or as I write my last
word?

What then, when every one of your pictures
makes words in the thousands?
How many more chunks of eternity
can you paint versus my poetry?


                    Yet you say I understand you.


Sometimes what you paint
flickers like in the movies,
and every frame

makes me wonder

if the way my pen moves
is just something someone animated
in her free time instead of studying.
Maybe then it wouldn't be too much
to say that sometimes
you sketch me into life.

Maybe then, this is why, sometimes


                    you say I understand you.


Even if I can barely hear your oxygen
over the noise of glittering pixels
that often disappoint us when we seek
more
than these strange profundities online,
where emotion is a commodity
and not ink... not paper...

It doesn't matter.

Because maybe my pen
was sketched by you.

And maybe
your poetry, your art
Dances. Sings. Smiles.
Laughs. Bleeds. Cries.
                                     Breathes.


                    So you can as well.

This Valentine’s Day,
I will not promise you
the twinkling stars
or the dreamily shimmering
blue moon.
No, don’t get me wrong,
My love, But,
I will not promise all those
fantasies,
that I cannot really gift you.

But,
I will vow to love you
till the eternity
And make you realize
howspecial you are.
And you’ll crave for
no cloudland.
Because my love will be your
Only euphoria.
And I will promise you
Honesty, love, trust and happiness.

I will not promise you
the bed of roses only.
For I know every rose
comes with its thorn.
Life can be cruel at times
and I promise at those
harsh moments,
I will be the last person
to leave you alone.

What good are the big vows,
when one fails to bestow
even a simple smile?
What good are the big crystal moon
and the twinkling stars when
you have eclipse in your heart
and misery in your eyes?
Today, my dear,
the world has failed to realize
that happiness comes from within.

So sweetheart,
I will not promise you
only the happy days ahead.
For life is the blend of
ecstasy and agony.
But I will assure you that
in every strive,
you’ll find your hand
locked in mine
and together we will make
our future shine.

I will not promise
the expensive pillows
to make you sleep at night.
But I will guarantee that
my arms will be there
to hug you tight.
And, in my arms,
may your eyes shut
with utter pleasure
every single night…

Today,
I want you to know this,
that your smile is my
only Sunshine,
Your ever glowing face
is my full moon.
And, the ever fluttering
big glowing eyes are
my glittering stars..

My love, if today,
you catch my hand and
whisper in my heart
that you love me,
then,
I will need no particular day
as Valentine’s day
to love you and express myself.
Because with you beside me
every day will be my
special day.
Every day will be my Valentine’s day.
Every day I will love you.

I promise that.

I have seen couples,
So far from each—
Other, on a platform,
Waiting for the next train,
Never touching, yet how
They ****** their mobile
Devices, how softly, sweet,
Without guile nor agenda
They swipe the glass—
As it swoons back in return
With blue lights and alerts,
So dearly needed and answers,
In way words for the machines
Of flesh and the ghost within,
With such personal aplomb
In real notifications of text
And instant message.

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.

I don't know why I can't write anything today.
I am so ******* empty but my mind keeps slipping back to
you,
and I hate myself with a fervor
unmatched by any passion I've felt before and that is
terrifying.
You aren't allowed to leave without saying
you'll come back,
you aren't allowed to love her without killing your love for me first.
Why do you do this to me?
Why do I do this to myself?
Honestly, you're innocent but
I need somewhere to place the guilt other than
myself
because my arms are full and
I cannot carry anymore.
I haven't seen you in weeks.
We used to talk,
you used to love me,
now do you even ******* care?
Do you ever think of me anymore?
Because I think about you all the time.
You are the reason I've been hungover the past two days,
you are the reason my friends are worried about me,
you are the reason I can't turn in any of the poems I write to my English teacher.
I do not love you like you want me to,
at least I don't think I do,
but I do love you,
oh god I do,
but what the hell does that even mean? All I know is
today I felt like crying because of all the things you've said to me
and the only thing I knew would make it better would be if
you said my name.
You didn't.

I have a curled photograph
With waves that crest behind you
And your hair, golden veins,
Tangled in the sun that caves,
There you sit— my open secret,
Atlantic,
Frees my wrested heart
At the fortress—
Altar,
Dún Aengus.

In that place, that wanting place,
High— on the jagged edge
I captured you,
Your eyes were ocean,
Atlantis,
Never so deep, never so
Lost.

we beat on and travel
you can't keep something that hates your presence
actions exalt billions of times louder than empty words with zero eye contact

joining haunts and skeletons you assured me were nonexistent
i saw them following you from the moment we met
they are holding you down and you can't expect me to cherish them
rubbing the dirt of your past, present, and future into my eyes
but again, promising there's nothing attached to you below
dancing to thought of your new idol-ship
when there's no one around to bow down and twinkle for you

what are you so ******* afraid of?
i smirk to myself, finally seeing through the foggy glass from body heat
you've misinterpreted every lilt of my voice
mistaking me for a lamb
But I'm a lion
strong, proud, and independent
my lust has been mistaken for desperate love
your ego is beginning to make your shoulders slump
attributing every word i put down as a proclamation for you

i'm sure you, and you, think this, along with all the others, are about "how much I need you."
They're about everyone.
I don't need you. I want you. Wanted?
I don't need anyone.
No one can have me like I got me.