You keep the poet in me alive,
and the words running through my veins.
Every time you break my heart.
You give me the gift of a muse,
for my misery in exchange.
I paint murals of elegant words.
Sojourn museums of elaborate memories.
Build cathedrals of poetical prayers.
You keep the artist in me alive,
and the paint dripping from my fingers.
Foolishly trying to illustrate
something beautiful from these ashes.

We both shared this knowing,
but were too apprehensive to point out
the obvious:
Love was brewing,
even still.

he growls
low & deep
in my ear
sweaty face tangled in my sweaty hair
"this is intimate"
a rumble with a giant hand squeezing my throat
"this you can not do with just anyone...'
& since i can barely breathe
i just look at him
a look that can only mean
yesbabypleasemore
i am
yours
to
hurt.

I wanted nothing to do
with the Light.
It stung.
It permeated.
It was far too invasive.
I fell in love with the midnight
of my Soul.
I self-medicated
with the familiar pain.
The Light was far too Holy,
for someone as lowly as me.
But, she was tender.
Her voice was inviting.
So, reluctantly,
I allowed her in.
And I welcomed her
to this dark void
I’ve made Home.

Last night I kissed your lips
in my dream,
only to taste regret on your tongue.
Your cold gaze spoke volumes
when our lips withdrew.
Because it was then,love
when I knew that our paths
shouldn’t have ever crossed.
Our bodies shouldn’t have
ever been introduced.
Our souls should have never collided.
I clung to you so tightly,
that when I woke up,
I could still smell your scent
embedded
in the threads of my shirt.
But even my dreaming mind knew
that your heart belonged
to someone else.
Still tasting the bitter rejection
on my face,
the salty tears
I erased with the hand
I held against my shattered heart.
Still facing the rejection
that I just couldn’t escape from,
even as I slept.
Tossing over on the sheets
of which I savored your aroma
from those nights in my bed,
When you slumbered
so deeply.
But even my yearning body knew
that your heart belonged
to someone else.
Someone should’ve told me
that rejection was for my own protection,
Because now I realize
that I was only the cause
of an *******,
Not arousing from your heart,
but from your lower section;
The product of a connection
lacking affection.
So now,
I wash my sheets of you,
to rid the bitter stench
of lust
that was left behind.
Because even my bed knew
that your heart belonged
to someone else.

"She tried to be everyone else's anchor but only sunk in despair, when She was engulfed in her own destruction and reached for hands that weren't there. But She had the strength of ten thousands waves that crashed at sea, with the heart of a lioness on the prowl for just a glimpse of her Free."

They thought they taught me how to be a woman...
    Expected to be strong hearted with a sharpened tongue and a backbone made of steel,
   Masquerading underneath a veil of indifference and resilience.
    Never showing lack thereof nor revealing weakness, but instead to take the lashes of sexism to the backside with ease:
   Taught to work finger to fragile bone, to stand ground on pained soles... Then commended for being a "woman"!
   Am I only good for surviving toil?
To be trampled over by the societal ideal that a woman is only known for making do with what's left to her?
NO.
They only thought they told me how to be a woman.
A woman is more than just a showcase of her strength.
She deserves more than the applause for her taking more than what or who's child she can bear.
  A woman is neither her survival nor misfortune. A woman's essence lies between her pain and her strength to rise.