I am a member of the human race
And I am just starting to know what that means
I remember a point at which I prayed to be different
To be able to view things from a distance
Because being human means being hurt
And then in turn
Hurting others
It means to speak free
And then think that means
To have the power to demean
To use those words to destroy
I wanted so badly to be above it
But I'm afraid I could never stand so tall
Yes, I am human
But I'm not broke
For I have hope
I speak free
Yet my words mend
And not because of me
But because of the one who lifted me up on my feet

Where does the devil hide
Is he the monster in the blind spot of our eye
Is he the one in the shadows under the bed
Is he the one that scatters when we turn our heads
Is he the half heard voice calling your name
Or the half seen figure outside your window pane

I've seen him though
I've seen the places he hides
He is in the tears of the young girls' eye
Being coaxed out by the insults screaming in her mind
He is in that small voice
Making us question if we are enough
And then coming to the conclusion that we're not
He is the whisper of doubt
When we search for someone to save us
Making us ask if we're even worth being saved
He is the notches in that young boys wrist
In the bruises that line his face
He is in the comfort
That keeps our legs from running
To reclaim the lost
In the insecurities
That lock our jaw
And arrests the words of salvation from our tongues
I have seen where the devil hides
He is right in front of your eyes

I watch, the way in which you move
Seemingly floating through a crowded room
With space lying in the pupils of your eyes
Yet you remain present
Ensuring that all you see and all who see you
Know the true gratitude, that saturates your lips
I look at you and see a moon
Reflecting the essence of stars
Into this stifling room
I rest with my arms in my lap and my hands on my chin
Attempting to close myself off from the pressure of people
Pressing on my consciousness as if in an attempt
To suffocate it
And I know that you feel the same
Or perhaps only similarly
The point being, you are as aware of this lack of space as I am
Yet as it is causing me to clench my teeth
To want to recede into a point of singularity
In which I can avoid encroaching on anybody
You expand,
You fill the space with your breath
Forcing others to recognize who you are
You're magnificent in the way a force of nature is
So unknowable that all we can do is observe
How truly wonderfully odd you are

When asked "do you believe in love?"
I really don't know how to answer
I mean what do they want me to say
"Yes, of course I do, just as I believe in today"
But that wouldn't be completely true
Yeah, I have felt the rush
Of a crude schoolyard crush
But that's not really anything is it
It's nothing compared to the fireworks
I'm almost positive will go off
When I meet
The girl of my dreams
And there you can see
How quickly things can become corny
That's why I'm afraid of this question
It takes the real
And places a hallmark seal on it
I mean when it happens
Of course I'm going to write sappy love poems
grossly romantic sonnets
And I'm sure it will make everyone uncomfortable
Just like any good romance
And I'm going to love every moment of it
But don't commercialize the idea
It is so much more than that
You don't just believe in love
You live it
In your actions and your words
It's not just something that holds a place in your mind
To help the chocolate and valentine market thrive
It is something that is worth working for

I haven’t written you a love song,
not from any lack of romance
for you color my skies with your eyes
and your lips flood my mind with irrational thoughts.
I often write of made up lullabies shared over nights we haven’t had,
or some imaginary girl falling for this made up guy,
that doesn’t sound anything like you or me.
I don’t know what stills my lips
when trying to write of the night skies we’ve shared,
for they are the most beautiful ones I’ve seen.
I think it may be because,
even if I wrote with the most complex and beautiful language
it would never do you, or the days we spent
watching movies in the back of my truck, any justice.
Our love is messy and incomprehensible
mainly because I still can’t translate what I feel
when your hands brush against mine, gently yet with excitement,
as if there were magnets in them that just had to connect with mine.
It’s not poetic, it’s cheesy, and messy,
but it’s the best thing that has ever happened to me.
So please take this convoluted attempt to work out my feelings,
as your love song, my confusing, jumbled, and truthful ode to you,
the muse to all the fantasies I write.